


I've Waited Here for You (Everlong)

by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/heyitsamorette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Ginny started dating Blaise, Harry has had to see a lot of Blaise’s friends as well… and with them comes Malfoy. Everyone’s too focused on rebuilding the world after the war to notice that Malfoy is still a dick, so they don’t seem to mind letting him into their little group. But Harry remembers everything, and when he’s not having nightmares from the war or training to become an Auror, he is doing his best not to let himself become friends with Draco Malfoy. And friends with benefits is not actually friends… is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anemonen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anemonen/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this, Ane! I had an absolute blast writing this for you. I am such a fan of your artwork and I adore you, so I was excited to get the chance to write something tailored just for you. Thank you a million times to my betas M and O, without whom I would have fallen apart into little pieces. xx
> 
> [Everlong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBG7P-K-r1Y) by the Foo Fighters
> 
> Contact me on tumblr: [@heyitsamorette](https://heyitsamorette.tumblr.com/)

 

  
_  
_

Come down and waste away with me

Down with me

Slow, how you wanted it to be

I'm over my head

  


Harry pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly tapped out a text to Hermione.

_Fuck, M is here. Knew this would happen. Where ARE you??!_

He tucked the phone away again and took up his cold glass of lager, draining about a third of it. Of all the people in the world, why did Ginny have to rebound with Blaise sodding Zabini? Now it was all, _Do you mind if Blaise comes with us?_ and, _I think Blaise is going to meet us at the pub_ , and, _But you have to come to -- to support Blaise!_

Harry had seen Blaise Zabini more in the last two months than he had in all their years at Hogwarts.

Not that Harry had anything against Blaise specifically. Actually he was quite a good chap, he reckoned. A bit quiet and standoffish at first, a bit scowly, but once he opened up Blaise was a proper laugh.

No, Blaise wasn’t so much the problem.

Harry stared as Malfoy, standing on the other side of Blaise at the bar, dropped some Knuts on the counter and accepted his glass of whiskey. He always had whiskey when he came out, or gin. Top shelf. Like a pint was not good enough for him. Twat.

Harry took another large gulp of his own pint as he stared at Malfoy’s tight Hermes shirt and thought about what a snob he was. He probably thought he looked so good, didn’t he? The way the shirt clung tightly to his torso and stretched across his chest, making it obvious that he still worked out and played Quidditch and wanted everyone to know.

Malfoy glanced up and caught Harry’s eye, and Harry nearly choked. He put down his drink, eyes watering, and coughed into his fist. If he swallowed the wrong way and died, it would be Malfoy’s fault. Malfoy would, obviously, be thrilled.

Harry’s pocket buzzed. He sighed in relief when he saw Hermione had texted him back.

_Don’t be an arsehole._

What? Him, the arsehole?

He knew this would happen when Ginny started dating Blaise. All of Blaise’s friends would inevitably filter in, one by one, infringing upon the precious little time off Harry had from Auror training, and he would be forced to tolerate all the pointy gits in Slytherin.

“Or maybe it’s just that one specific pointy git,” Ginny had said when Harry had—in her opinion, rudely—voiced this concern, “that gets you hot and bothered.”

Harry remembered having been appalled. “I don’t get _hot and bothered_ , more like just bothered. And pissed off.” Not that it had wiped the unconvinced look from Ginny’s face. “How can you stand him anyways? I’d have thought _you_ at least would admit how horrible he is, even if Hermione won’t.” Everyone knew not to get him started on Hermione. The bloody traitor.

“Oh, god, he is horrible,” Ginny had said, nodding emphatically. “There’s no doubt about that. But in a horribly funny way.”

“Just because someone is… passably good at doing impressions doesn’t mean they’re funny.” And just to prove this point, Harry vowed never to laugh at any of Malfoy’s jokes, even if he had to press his lips together and turn away. He really didn’t need Ginny giving him those annoyingly smug looks.

Now Malfoy was making his rounds. He did this every time, greeting everyone with a handshake or a half-hug and a huge grin. “Hi, Weasley,” he said to Ginny, who let him wrap his arm around her momentarily in a friendly gesture of hello and even embraced him around the waist. And then he did that thing. The one thing he did to everyone. That was, everyone except Harry, like Harry had some sort of infectious skin condition and Malfoy couldn’t bear to touch him in particular. Malfoy leaned down and gave her a light peck on the cheek, and then the other.

“Stop groping my girlfriend,” Blaise teased.

“She’s the one groping me,” Malfoy said with a grin that some might call charming, but Harry called smarmy. And of course he leaned in and kissed Blaise on one cheek. “I try to stop her but she can’t seem to resist me.”

When the bloody fuck were Hermione and Ron getting here? It was fine when it had been just Ginny, Blaise, and Harry, but then Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass had shown up, as they did. They currently sat in the corner sipping pink martinis and gossiping about their coworkers. And now Malfoy.

And Neville was running late too because he was pruning his Trachea Mumpula or whatever it was called—a very ugly maroon fern that could only be pruned by the light of the moon. Neville was almost ready to apply for a position as the Herbology assistant professor, so his ferns were important to him.

“You’re so full of it, Malfoy,” Ginny said, laughing as she leaned back into Blaise’s lap.

Finally, Malfoy’s eyes drifted to Harry once again, and it was the moment he was going to say hi to him. To be fair, Malfoy never ignored him, and he seemed to make a conscious effort to be more friendly to Harry ever since their two groups of friends were forced to hang out together. Hermione said he was secretly thankful to Harry for rescuing him from the Fiendfyre. Ron said he was just brown nosing. However, Ron never did seem to turn down the half-hug and the air kisses, did he? Harry wanted to grab Ron and guard him like a Keeper guarding his hoops and not let Malfoy’s grins and funny anecdotes win Ron over. Because Ron was Harry’s friend, and Malfoy couldn’t have him.

And he was not being childish, so Hermione could piss right off.

Malfoy was coming closer to him. The corners of his mouth were turning upwards into a small, tight smile.

“Hello, Potter.”

“Hey,” Harry grunted. He gripped his pint glass in a firm fist. Malfoy’s eyes flickered there.

“Hope you’re well.”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. “M’fine.”

Malfoy nodded too, then he took a sip of whiskey, the dim light in the pub illuminating his flushed cheeks. Malfoy could never handle his drink, he was always flushed and pink around his shirt collar.

And he never leaned in to hug Harry. Never. Not this time, not ever. It made Harry hot with the injustice of it, something in his chest bubbling dangerously close to overflowing. He watched the line of Malfoy’s jaw, the way it seemed like he kissed even the rim of his glass to tip the whiskey past his pink lips. But he never kissed Harry’s cheeks and he never leaned in for that shadow of a hug. What was it like to have Malfoy that close? Everyone else knew, but Harry never would.

He guzzled down the rest of his drink and signaled for another with a raise of his hand. The bartender dropped the drink he had been previously preparing and rushed to fill Harry another pint. It never failed to embarrass Harry, especially with Malfoy watching now and probably thinking Harry enjoyed the attention. But, to his shame, Harry let the bartender fuss over him because he desperately needed to be drunk if he was going to survive the rest of the night.

“Harry’s got a few months of Auror training left before his exams,” Ginny told Malfoy, with the air of someone introducing two mutual friends who had never met before. “He’s doing really well, Robards told my dad.”

Malfoy nodded. “Of course Potter would do well.” He didn’t sound particularly snarky, but Harry knew what Malfoy was thinking.

“I’m not being given special treatment or anything,” Harry said. Ginny raised her eyebrows in a warning look which Harry ignored. Blaise began chugging his pint.

“I would never suggest such a thing,” Malfoy said.

Harry scoffed. “Right. Of course, you’re suggesting I’ve earned it. Because you’ve always had such a high opinion of me.”

“Harry...” Ginny started to say.

“Well you haven’t passed any exams yet, Potter, so you haven’t earned anything.” Malfoy smirked.

Harry shook his head. “You know, you’re really something—”

“HEYA!” Seamus’ voice boomed through the pub, louder than the music, and random patrons gave him dirty looks as he barreled toward the bar with Dean and Neville in tow. Blaise exhaled audibly and held his arms out to him.

“Get your arse over here and let me buy you a drink,” he said as Seamus clapped him on the shoulder. “You two as well,” Blaise nodded to the others. “Your usuals?”

“Thanks, mate,” Neville said happily, then turned to Harry. His brow creased. “Something wrong, Harry?

“No, nothing.” Harry was glad that some of his friends had arrived to save him. Just as he was about to get off his barstool and give Neville a proper hello, Malfoy descended upon him.

“How are you, Longbottom?” Malfoy gripped Neville’s elbow and smiled at him and oozed that charm that no one seemed able to resist. It had to be magic, there was just nothing else for it. Maybe Malfoy had Obliviated them all to make them forget what a git he was. Why did no one care anymore? Neville—bless him and his sweet, forgiving heart—smiled at Malfoy and returned his cheek kisses with what looked like genuine affection.

It was a complete fucking nightmare.

Not that he wanted Malfoy’s wet kisses all over him, but it was so obvious that Malfoy was doing it on purpose. It was no secret that Malfoy thoroughly enjoyed pissing him off; he had always basked in Harry’s anger. He knew he was singling Harry out and basically spurning him.

“Doing really well,” Neville said. Another traitor. “Is your mum enjoying the garden?”

“She loves it. It’s getting her to come inside that’s the problem. I tell her, do you even remember what the house looks like anymore? Do you remember me? Your son? No, all she’s got eyes for now are the bloody chrysanthemums. You’ve robbed me of my mother, Longbottom.”

Neville laughed and laughed.

“You helping Malfoy with his garden?” Harry asked.

“My mother’s garden,” Malfoy made a point to say. “She’s in love with you, I think,” he said, turning to Nevile again. “Talked my ear off about you last night at dinner. Well, you and the chrysanthemums.”

“Those were lovely.” Neville nodded.

It was all Harry could do not to puke. He sat there listening to Malfoy and Neville talk about their own _things_ , like they were friends now. It seemed Neville spent a lot of time at the Manor these days tending to Narcissa Malfoy’s garden, procuring the rarest of magical plant species to line her flowerbeds, and taking breaks for afternoon tea on her expensive china.

True, Harry could have gotten up at any time and gone over to Dean, whom he really did need to have a word with about his show tomorrow, but his arse seemed glued his barstool. He was almost finished with his third pint as Malfoy started talking about the newly seated Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt and making quippy jokes. They weren’t too horribly mean spirited, surprisingly, and the drunker Harry got the funnier Malfoy’s stories seemed, until he was laughing along with the two of them almost as throatily as Neville was. Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be doing that and looked around to make sure Ginny hadn’t noticed.

Oh, fuck, he was wobbly.

Ginny was a red blur on the corner of his eye, and the door of the pub swayed. Oh, hold on, it wasn’t sway, it was properly swinging open.

“There you are, you tosser!” Harry hollered as Ron’s face swam before him. Hermione’s bushy head followed. They let in a burst of cool autumn air that, unfortunately, did nothing to refresh Harry’s tipsy state. “What the hell were you doing for so long?”

“Avoiding this prat,” Ron nodded at Malfoy, but his grin was huge and he reached over to lightly nudge Malfoy on the chest. “Are you being good, Malfoy?”

Harry waited for it, and sure enough, there it was, that strange spike in the chest. That panic-like feeling that something was _wrongwrongwrong_ when Malfoy and Ron actually touched their cheeks together and Malfoy pursed his lips just the slightest in that air-kissy business, and Harry wanted to smash his pint glass into the countertop.

Hermione followed and she even gave Malfoy a big squeeze. He kissed her once on both cheeks like he did Ginny. Strangely, it wasn’t as horrible when he kissed them. Maybe because Harry knew it didn’t mean anything with the girls since Malfoy wasn’t actually interested in them in that way. Neville had let it slip once when he was sloshed off Luna’s homemade dandelion wine—amazing stuff, by the way, and stronger than Ogden's Own. Apparently Malfoy was exclusively interested in blokes, but it was a secret and Neville made Harry swear not to tell because he felt so horribly guilty about blabbing it. Malfoy had told him in confidence (because they had confidences now).

Harry promised, so he only told Ron and Hermione. And mostly just to warn Ron because Malfoy was obsessed with kissing him all the sudden and that probably meant he fancied Ron. And honestly Harry could see why, since Ron had got good and fit since joining the Auror Trainees; they all had, it was grueling. Malfoy would have to have been blind not to notice, which is probably why he kept kissing Ron’s face.

“He does that to everyone,” Ron had said, frowning. “And anyways, Harry, I feel a bit awkward now because I would hate to think you have a problem with the gays.”

“Don’t call them ‘the gays’, Ron.” Hermione had been there too. It was lunch time at the Ministry.

“Charlie’s gay,” Ron had continued, “did you know that? So is my Aunt Gertrude.”

“Gosh, no,” Harry had said, truly surprised about Charlie (and not giving a fuck about Aunt Gertrude). “I had no idea, and I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I have no problem with it at all.”

Ron had relaxed and smiled and bitten into his bacon sandwich. “And like I said, Malfoy does that to everybody.”

“He never does it to me.”

Hermione and Ron had exchanged glances, and then Hermione went back to reading the _Prophet_.

“What?” Harry had sighed. “He fucking hates me, doesn’t he? I even spoke at his trial so I don’t know what he wants. Maybe he’s mad I haven’t returned his wand yet. But to be fair, it won’t work for him, I won it so it’s loyal to me now.”

They had never really brought it up again.

 

\\\//

 

It was getting late and Hermione had to do some work, so she begged off.

“The bloody creatures will be all right if you stay for one more drink,” Ron whined, gripping her waist and staring down at her. Sometimes when Harry saw them like that, his heart panged in a weirdly longing sort of way. He was so happy for them, and he hoped that one day, he’d have what they had. Would he ever look into some girl’s eyes the way Ron looked at Hermione now? Apparently Harry had never looked at Ginny that way enough. Harry finished his drink and ordered another.

Hermione smiled and ran her hands up Ron’s strong bicep. “The department head wants this draft on his desk by seven o’clock tomorrow morning…. Why don’t you stay and finish up here? By the time you get back I’ll likely be all done, and then....” She bit her lip.

Outside was crispy cool, and colorful leaves fell to the ground, but inside the pub was sweltering like a stovetop. Harry needed to cool off. And he needed to piss.

“You alright?” Ron asked, grabbing Harry before he fell off his stool.

“M’fine.” Harry straightened up. “Thanks, just the loo.” He tried not to stumbled the entire way there.

The music wasn’t as loud in the toilets. Harry avoided looking at himself in the mirror since he knew he probably looked shit. It had been a long week, training was awful, he had barely had time to do a quick shower let alone shave. His face was covered in stubble and his hair was a mess. Ginny said he looked hot like this, a bit grungy and badass, especially in his Foo Fighters t-shirt, but that had been before she broke up with him.

He didn’t know how he ended up in a stall, since he could have just pissed in one of the urinals, but he sort of wanted to lean against something. He had just shaken off his dick when the door opened, followed by footsteps and voices.

“Of course he does.”

Fuck, it was Malfoy.

“Look, I don’t really care one way or another.” And Blaise. “Just please try not to get into any fights with him tonight. Ginny was so ticked off the last time, I didn’t even get to have sex.”

Harry got a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach that they were talking about him. He remembered the rather loud “disagreement” he and Malfoy had had about Muggle politics last Friday night.

He and Blaise were both unzipping now. Harry didn’t move a muscle, barely even breathed.

“It’s not me,” Malfoy hissed, “it’s him. You see how nice I am to him, but he makes it rather difficult, doesn’t he? I’m telling you, he hates me.”

The tinkling sound of piss against porcelain should have made Harry grimace, but all that came to mind was an image of Malfoy’s cock. Which should have still made him grimace.

“And I’m telling you, I could really care less.” A zip. “Just stay out of his way, all right?”

“Stupid Potter,” Malfoy mumbled, then zipped up his own trousers. He sounded like he had at school, spitting out Harry’s name like it tasted sour on his tongue. Harry clenched his fist against the wall of the stall. “I’ve tried everything,” Malfoy added.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard. Just relax.”

Malfoy sighed with a heap of frustration in his voice. “You know I can’t do that, not around him. My nerves are all on edge.”

“Well then have another drink and try to avoid him.”

“You really want to have sex, don’t you?”

“Fuck yes, and I don’t need your weird anxiety about Potter getting in my way, especially since it has nothing to do with me…” The bathroom door swung shut and their voices cut off.

Malfoy didn’t need to try to be nice to him if he didn’t want to be. It was clear Harry irked him and set his nerves “on edge”, and trying to be friendly with Harry was exceedingly difficult for him. Which explained why he never air-kissed Harry or came anywhere close to touching him. He was probably grossed out by the idea, just the thought of half-hugging Harry making his delicate little nerves all squirmy.

Harry punched the stall. It hurt, and the clang seemed to reverberate through his drunken brain like a gong.

He didn’t want Malfoy to like him anyway, but that wasn’t the point. It was just so… stupid. Malfoy was fucking stupid. How could he hate Harry after Harry had not only risked his life for him in the Fiendfyre but also spoken up for him and his family in the Wizengamot? Was he just embarrassed that Harry was basically the only reason he was not in Azkaban right now?

But that felt really shitty. He didn’t want to be Malfoy’s saving grace, he just wanted to do what he thought was right. It wasn’t like Harry spoke up for him so that Malfoy would worship him afterward. Harry hated that shit, it always made him want to gag when people treated him like some sort of divine entity. So he shouldn’t be ticked off at Malfoy for not liking him.

Malfoy was messing with his head, and he was really too drunk to have serious thoughts right now. Besides, he still needed to find Dean.

They sat at the end of the bar and Dean bought him another pint, which Harry eagerly accepted. “What was it you wanted to ask me, about tomorrow?” Harry asked before taking a long sip.

“I’m asking all the benefactors if they can make a small speech—now before you go shaking your head like that, listen to me. It doesn’t have to be a long speech, just a little tidbit.”

“A tidbit...”

“Just something about why you wanted to support the show—which I appreciate loads, by the way.”

“Because you’re my friend and of course I would support your show.”

“That’s really nice, thank you, Harry.”

“How many benefactors are there total?”

“Not many, it’s a small handful of you. About five, you’ll all be sharing a table at the front.”

“Oh, god.”

“I know you hate all that pomp and circumstance, but the show’s blown up like I never thought it would.”

“I know, and that’s great, honestly.”

“I’m beyond thrilled, I could never have imagined it.” Dean put his hand on Harry’s knee. “And it couldn’t have happened without you, Harry. You know how much I appreciate that, don’t you?”

“I know, but really, it’s no problem. I just hate speeches—”

“I know—”

“—and pictures.”

“If it helps you feel better, there won’t be too many photographers.”

“Pictures are the worst.”

“Maybe ten max.”

“Oh, god.” Harry gulped down the frothy lager.

“There are a lot of tables and we need enough photographers, you understand.”

“I, for one, can’t wait for the auction.” Malfoy had found his way over. He smiled but his eyes were piercing as he glanced quickly at Dean’s hand. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing a couple of your works, Thomas. You know which piece I want.”

“I do, and I’m looking forward to you winning it.”

Great, the only thing worse than being attacked by the stinging flash of ten cameras was having to endure it all with Malfoy there.

“I take it I’ll be seeing you there, Potter?”

“Yeah, I’m going because Dean and I have been friends for ages. Why are you going?”

Malfoy’s smiled turned strained, but he took a step closer to Harry. His cologne settled in the air that Harry breathed.

“I’m going to support Dean as well.”

“Since when have you ever cared about supporting anyone but yourself?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You obviously don’t know me that well, Potter.”

Harry scoffed. “I know you _very_ well, Malfoy.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow; was Malfoy amused at that? “You probably wouldn’t feed a kneazle unless you got something out of it.”

“Is that what you think of me?” His lips turned upwards into a smirk. “Draco Malfoy, kicker of kittens and kneazles?”

Dean laughed, and Harry tried but failed not to smile.

“Am I really all that bad, Potter?” Suddenly, something like sadness flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, all the jovialness draining from his face. “Don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to hear it.”

“Huh?”

“I’m drunk.” Malfoy shook his head. “Don’t listen to anything I’m saying.”

“I usually don’t.”

Narrowing his eyes, Malfoy leaned in an inch closer. His eyes had flecks of blue if Harry looked really closely, past all that grey. But the pub was dark and Harry’s vision was swimming, so maybe he was just imagining it. Malfoy had four eyes a moment later. And his scowling face loomed close.

Harry’s heart almost stopped as he realized what was happening. Was this the moment? Was he finally going get the cheek kiss? Malfoy was coming ever closer and his lips were so close to Harry’s face, it seemed inevitable that they would close that gap. This is how the cheek kisses happened! Harry would finally get one, the fucking elusive kiss, and maybe even the half hug but he wasn’t going to be greedy. He held his breath, his limbs stuck in place from the anticipation.

“I don’t care,” Malfoy was saying, but why was he talking? He wasn’t supposed to be talking, he was supposed to be kissing. And he was starting to look like he hated Harry’s guts. “Do you hear me, Potter? I just don’t fucking care.”

Harry swallowed. His chest felt like it had just encountered a big, heavy Bludger. “Good.”

“You know,” Dean said, inching off his seat, “I think I’d better get going. I’ve got an early start tomorrow setting up the gallery so I should be heading to bed. I’ll see you both there.”

“Bye, Dean,” Harry mumbled. He watched Dean walk to the door, passing by Parkinson who was wrapped around some bloke. It seemed that Greengrass had left since she was nowhere in sight, whether alone or with her own conquest, Harry didn’t know. Looking around some more, he realized he didn’t see Ron either; apparently Hermione’s offer had been too tempting to resist for much longer.

“Where’s Gin…” he was saying, when Malfoy’s chest got in his line of vision.

“I mean it, Potter,” Malfoy said.

“Mean what?”

“That I don’t give a fuck what you think of me.”

Harry grinned as he drained the last of the lager. “That’s probably for the best.”

Malfoy must have been drunker than he let on because he dropped onto the barstool but almost missed the seat. “Longbottom isn’t as thick-headed as you are.”

“Is that supposed to mean you and Neville are best mates now?”

Malfoy shrugged. “If you would hate that, then yes.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“I’m staying right here, so why don’t you piss off?”

“I was sitting here first.”

Seamus and Neville came over just then. “I’m glad to see you two haven’t graduated to more adult arguments,” Neville said. “It just wouldn’t be the same, really.”

“Yeah,” Seamus said. “Makes me nostalgic for Hogwarts.”

Harry smiled at that. He didn’t particularly feel nostalgic about being harassed by Malfoy, but something about that settled warmly in his chest. Perhaps it was the vision of blond hair whipping in the wind and the Quidditch pitch a blur all around him. Or the memory of smirking lips in the castle corridor. Maybe he just missed Hogwarts. It was, after all, his first true home.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and Harry wondered what his Hogwarts memories consisted of. Probably the murky green light of the the Slytherin dungeons.

“You alright, Harry?” Neville asked. Hadn’t he asked him that earlier? Harry couldn’t remember. Neville’s face became two faces, and then merged back into one. It was quite funny.

Harry grinned at him. “Sure thing, Nev. I’m really, really good.” And he felt it, even though a moment ago he’d been ticked off enough to punch Malfoy in the face.

“He’s hammered.” Seamus said. “And rightfully so. It’s Friday night and I need to pull, so help me get on Harry’s level.”

“Do you drink Hungarian Horntails?” Malfoy asked.

“Like the dragon?” Harry asked. Malfoy’s face was not doubling into two, it was soft and blurry around the edges. Harry leaned in closer, wanting that sharpness back.

“Yes, Potter, like the dragon, and just as lethal.” Malfoy didn’t pull away when Harry’s knee brushed his. Harry wondered if he even noticed.

It was much too warm in the pub for the smoking row of shot glasses the bartender placed in front of them. When Harry picked up the black drink in its little glass, it was icy to the touch, the steam cold against his face.

“Cheers, mates,” Seamus said.

They all threw their drinks back.

It slid like chilling syrup down Harry’s throat. “That’s vile,” he said, pulling a face.

Malfoy was laughing at him, his eyes soft and jovial once more. Harry started to laugh as well. Seamus was laughing. Neville began giggling madly and put his fingers over his mouth. Which was so funny, Harry started laughing harder.

“Malfoy, you git,” Seamus said between guffaws, and Malfoy threw his head back. Harry stared at his throat. “When does this wear off?”

Suddenly, a pressure built in Harry’s head like someone had put their hands on both ears and started to squeeze, and squeeze, until finally….

Steam erupted from Neville’s nostrils and from both his ears, and then the same happened to Seamus, and then to Malfoy. Harry felt the chilly wind of it as the pressure drained from his head. His giggles subsided after that.

And then he was ridiculously drunk.

He didn’t know how much time had passed or what transpired from then until he was stumbling out the doors of the pub. Whole portions of the night were void and blank in his mind. He just remembered grinning and laughing and how his cheeks hurt from it, how his eyes watered. He remembered Malfoy’s face, and his legs pressing flush with Harry’s, the way his whole body tingled.

“Top night!” Neville shouted into the street. He almost tripped over his own feet.

“Watch yourself, Longbottom,” Malfoy laughed.

Harry looked around. “Where’s Seamus?” Spinning his head like that made him dizzy.

“Getting lucky with some bint.” Malfoy said.

“Lucky, lucky Seamus,” Neville said.

“Why didn’t you go with that girl, Longbottom?”

Harry couldn’t remember what girl Malfoy was talking about, and he sort of tuned them out as they talked about her. Some girl had propositioned Neville and he hadn’t gone for it? Harry’s head was swimming. His cock was half hard. What he really wanted, he realized, was to go home and rub one out in the blissful comfort of his bed.

“Well, I’m off,” he announced. “See you fuckers tomorrow.”

“Me too, I can’t forget to water the tracheophyta mumpulus.”

“Longbottom, you complete fucking wanker!” Malfoy shouted.

Harry laughed. Even he had to agree with Malfoy this time. “Honestly, Neville, you are obsessed with that fern.”

“It needs to be watered by the last ray of moonlight! You two wouldn’t understand!”

“I am going to come over,” Malfoy said, pointing his finger like he was making a promise, “and I’m going to rip that bloody plant out of the bloody ground.”

“You’re an arsehole. You’re both arseholes.”

Harry was laughing so hard he had to hold onto Malfoy’s shoulder to keep himself upright. Malfoy was looking at him, and then Harry noticed he also had a hand on Malfoy’s stomach. Which he quickly pulled away as he side stepped out of Malfoy’s personal space. He really shouldn’t have gotten this drunk.

“Fuck both of you, and goodbye.” Neville Disapparated.

“Well,” Harry said, not having expected him and Malfoy to be the last two to leave. He wondered what time it was. Four in the morning? Five? “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

“Night, Potter,” Malfoy said, smirking and pulling out a cigarette from his back pocket. Harry felt an instant pang of regret. He always loved watching Malfoy smoke those strange wizard cigarettes that smelled delicious and sexy. He wanted to stay, to watch Malfoy blow out that fragrant smoke from between his smirky lips.

But he had already said he was leaving.

He imagined his bed, hoping he wouldn’t throw up all over it from the pull of Apparition. When the magic hooked his stomach, he opened his eyes.

He stumbled, and then his hands hit the rough cobblestones. Looking around from where he had fallen on his hands and knees, he realized he was still in Diagon Alley. He hadn’t Apparated more than a few feet. Oh no, had he splinched himself?

“Potter!” Malfoy’s footsteps hurried closer. “Don’t kill yourself, Potter. There are no witnesses and everyone will blame me.”

Malfoy took hold of his shoulders and helped him off the ground. Once again, Harry found that his hands went straight to Malfoy’s chest and waist as he allowed Malfoy to hoist him to his feet.

Harry caught his breath as he stared, eyes lowered, at Malfoy’s chin. His head was spinning.

“Potter?”

Harry looked up, and Malfoy’s grey-blue eyes were right there.

“Are you alright?”

How many people had asked him that tonight? Harry didn’t say anything this time. He tried to will his hands to let go of Malfoy’s waist, but he was almost certain he’d fall down again if he did. And besides, Malfoy was gripping Harry’s arms above the elbow so Harry was trapped and there was nothing he could do about it. It would be pointless to try to move.

“Talk to me, Potter. Have you splinched your tongue?”

As if to prove he hadn’t, Harry licked his lips.

“I guess not.” Malfoy’s lips twitched. “You realize you’re too drunk to Apparate? Not that I’d give a fuck normally, but like I said, no witnesses…”

“Want to go home.”

“Yes, well…” Malfoy exhaled hard. “I suppose I have to take you there, don’t I?”

“If you leave me, I’ll hex you.”

“Right. And I really don’t want you to do that.”

Harry smiled and swayed, and Malfoy tightened his grip on him, pulling him even closer. Harry’s heart was being very demanding in his chest. Maybe he was reacting badly to Malfoy’s weird cologne. It was probably expensive and obnoxious.

“Call Hermione.”

“Call?”

“Phone’s in my pocket.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawned on Malfoy’s face. “You have one of those Muggle things. Well, I bloody well don’t know how to use it.”

“Thought you had stock in Apple? You were bragging about it.”

“Sure, but I don’t touch the things.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“I’ll just Apparate you to your street. What’s your address?”

Harry told him. “Ron will be at Hermione’s, though.” He didn’t know why Malfoy needed that information. Mostly Harry was just murmuring to himself at this point.

Malfoy stepped close to him and their bodies were flush against each other. His hair smelled really good. Harry wanted to make fun of him for whatever posh shampoo he used but then there was that hook behind his navel and the world whooshed away.

Suddenly they were on his street, and then Harry had to let go of Malfoy. Thankfully he didn’t fall over, and even managed to stay upright all the way to his front door.

“You share this place with Weasley?”

“Yes.” Harry undid the locking charms and they stepped inside. “Hermione has her own flat closer to the Ministry. Ron spends most nights there.”

“You work at the Ministry. Why didn’t you both join her?”

“Hermione said living all together and dating Ron would be weird.” Harry kicked off his shoes. He noticed Malfoy didn’t do the same, but neither was he making any moves to leave. Which pleased him in a way. “Besides, Hermione has too many books, there’d be no room for us anyways.”

Malfoy snorted. He was looking around.

Harry stumbled into the living room, even more pleased when Malfoy followed him. He fell onto the sofa heavily, sprawling out. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re still a git though.”

“Don’t worry, I’m under no impression that you like me.”

“You’re just trying to make sure I survive—”

“—so I won’t be blamed for your death, yes.”

“Well, I’m safe now, so…” He didn’t want to finish the sentence with, “you should go”. He didn’t want Malfoy to go. Oddly enough.

“I should go.”

“Yeah.”

Malfoy started to turn around.

“Wait.”

He turned back. “What?”

“We haven’t kissed.”

Malfoy didn’t seem to understand. He looked at Harry like he wasn’t speaking English and he had no idea what Harry was saying. “What?”

“You always kiss everyone on the cheek before you leave.”

“I…” Malfoy was flushing. Or that could have been Harry’s drunk vision making it up. “Potter…”

“You do it to Ginny, and to Blaise. Even Hermione. _Even Ron.”_

“All right, all right…” Malfoy held his hands up like he was surrendering, though to what was unclear. Still, Harry felt victorious in some way. Especially when Malfoy started walking over.

Tentatively, he sat down on the sofa next to Harry.

A happy thrill shot through Harry, and he smiled. He almost couldn’t believe he was finally going to get his air kisses. It was such a ridiculous thing to want, but for so long, he’d felt out of the odd little club that had formed around Malfoy, how everyone suddenly accepted him as a friend. And Harry didn’t want to be his friend, but he wanted to be part of the club. But not as Malfoy’s friend. He hated Malfoy. He—

Malfoy’s lips pressed against his cheek. Harry swallowed.

“Good night, Potter.”

He stood perfectly still as Malfoy leaned over him to reach his other cheek. He could have made it easier for him by turning his head more, but Harry was drunk and it was too much of an effort. Plus if he moved too much and fell over, Malfoy might stop.

So Malfoy had to put his palm on Harry’s stomach so as to steady himself. Harry was glad that he had trained so hard the last few months. He had a very toned stomach and he was sure Malfoy could feel it through his t-shirt. He wondered if he should stretch so that the shirt would rise up and Malfoy could see, too. But again, moving too much presented a problem. And Malfoy was already lightly pressing a kiss onto his other cheek.

When he pulled back, his eyes focused sharply on Harry’s face.

“Good night,” Harry said. And of course, he had to return the gesture. But Malfoy hadn’t kissed the air, he’d kissed Harry’s actual cheeks. Harry had to do the same. It was only polite.

He grabbed the back of Malfoy’s neck and drew him in, then he kissed Malfoy’s cheekbone. He realized he found it extremely pleasant to be this close up to Malfoy. He might be the world’s most evil git, but he smelled ridiculously good and his body was firm and warm, and his skin was soft under Harry’s lips.

He did the other cheek next. And then he almost pulled away, but not completely. He didn’t know how it happened or how he ended up there, but he was suddenly kissing Malfoy’s mouth.

Malfoy made a choking noise and it went straight to Harry’s groin. Harry’s whole body was screaming, _yes yes, god yes, this is exactly what I wanted._ His cock was hard, aching in his jeans.

He kissed Malfoy more deeply, tasting him on his tongue. Malfoy’s hands were both on him, tugging at his t-shirt. Harry wasn’t about to stop kissing him, so he let Malfoy pull him on top, their legs tangling together as he pressed Malfoy into the sofa.

Their kisses became sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as Malfoy breathed hard and made all kinds of desperate noises in the back of his throat. He jutted his hips upward, and Harry quickly took his cue, grinding their cocks together through their trousers. His brain had apparently decided to stop thinking and the only thing he knew was the incredible feeling of rutting onto Malfoy’s body. How the long, hard shaft of Malfoy’s cock felt against his own. Even just the idea that Malfoy was hard drove him crazy.

It all came to a peak very soon. He lamented having to break their kiss as he gasped for air and all but fucked Malfoy into the sofa. It seemed so natural to take hold of Malfoy’s thighs and pull him in, it felt like he was properly fucking him, rubbing their cocks together with every measured roll of his hips. He realised he was grunting, but he could give a fuck about how he sounded. The entire world closed in on him, or maybe he had just closed his eyes, and then he became frantic. He was coming.

Harry felt like he was floating, like the air was sparkling around the edges of his vision. That was so, so good. He could tell he was still half-hard, but satisfied enough. He looked down at Malfoy.

Malfoy’s eyes were shut and he was breathing like he had just come, too. His hair was all over the place, something Harry had never seen before. It struck him as sort of strange and wonderful. Malfoy blinked his eyes open, his pupils wide, looking as dazed as Harry felt.

Harry desperately wanted a lie down. His body was screaming at him that it was really much too late and that he needed sleep more than anything at the moment.

“Come on,” he said, pulling Malfoy up with him.

“Where are we going?”

“To sleep, you git.”

He took hold of Malfoy’s warm hand and led him across the living room, into the little entrance hall with the staircase. He held onto his hand all the way up the stairs and down the hallway that led to the two bedrooms.

“Potter, I have to go home.”

“No.” He sounded petulant. Thankfully, Malfoy didn’t argue any more and allowed Harry to pull him into his room. Only then did Harry let go of Malfoy’s hand.

And only because his jeans were sticky, so he pulled them down his hips along with his pants. Malfoy stared at him.

“Are you going to sleep like that?” Harry scoffed. “You’re gross.” How could Malfoy stand being in come-sticky pants all night? Harry certainly couldn’t, and besides, he liked the feeling of the soft sheets against his naked skin. He pulled down the duvet and slid into his bed.

Malfoy seemed to have been Petrified, his jaw hanging slack.

“Well, come on,” Harry insisted. He really didn’t have all night to sit around and wait, he was exhausted. Sleep already started to creep around, shutting off the lights inside his head.

Malfoy shook his head even as he reached down to undo his trousers. “Fuck,” he breathed as he unzipped his fly and pushed his tight jeans down his legs. “Fuck.” He kept repeating it, _fuck_ , like there was some horrible mistake. “I must be piss drunk…”

His cock was at half mast, bobbing against his thigh as he walked to the bed. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off it even though they stung with exhaustion and it was dark and he couldn’t see too clearly.

Malfoy hesitated before fully climbing in. “Do you promise you won’t actually kill me in my sleep for this?”

Harry shook his head. Malfoy was stupid, didn’t he know? “I hate sleeping,” was all he could say. It probably didn’t make sense to Malfoy. Malfoy was so stupid.

Malfoy pulled the covers over both of them. He faced Harry, one hand tucked under his pillow. “I hate it too sometimes.”

Oh, well, maybe Malfoy was not so hopeless after all.

“I need help sleeping,” Harry said, though he didn’t know why. He never told Ron that. He never let on that he needed him there in the house sometimes, that he slept better when Ron was in the other room. But that was because he didn’t want Ron to feel guilty about going to Hermione’s so much. “I’m glad they’re together and all, but sometimes I wish he would sleep here more. You know?”

Malfoy crinkled his forehead, frowning. “I’m not sure.”

With a sigh, Harry rolled his eyes. “Ron, he goes to Hermione’s almost every night.” Malfoy continued to stare intently, like he was trying to understand a particularly complicated arithmancy problem. “It’s just really empty when he’s not here.”

Malfoy’s face hardened again and he scowled. “I get it. But I’m not Ron, Potter.”

“I know.” Harry reached up and ran his fingers through Malfoy’s hair. It felt really nice. He kept petting it, drawing through the strands. He was really bloody tired, and Malfoy’s body heat was making the bed warm. “But you’ll do fine, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s entire body seemed to stiffen. He looked Petrified again.

Harry moved his hand to Malfoy’s shoulder, rubbing over his shirt, trying to unpetrify him. He moved in closer and one of his legs found Malfoy’s, and Harry swung it over. Malfoy inhaled, and after a long moment, he relaxed just the slightest bit.

Harry didn’t know when he went from staring at Malfoy’s face to drifting off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

 

And I wonder

When I sing along with you

If everything could ever feel this real forever

If anything could ever be this good again

  


A torrent of hexes washed over them like a tidal wave, reverberating through the air and ripping through the invisible barrier, which glimmered and fizzled out with every piercing ray of light. Red, purple, blue hexes. The air was so thick with them, Harry felt the vibrations through his arms.

Where was Hermione? As much as he looked for her, he could never find her. He tried to call for her but his voice was trapped down in his throat and not a sound escaped him. He ran in circles inside the tent, desperate to find her. Had she gotten the stupid idea of going outside and trying to mend the tears in the barrier?

The vibrations of the spells were like a horrible symphony all around, like a swarm of angry hornets.

Harry turned to the flap of the tent intent on bringing Hermione back inside, but then there was a _Pop!_ and Bellatrix Lestrange appeared before him. Harry’s heart jumped in his chest. He held his wand at the ready but she cackled in his ear. Laughed and laughed for what seemed like ages. Harry started sinking fast into quicksand.

 

\\\//

 

Harry opened his eyes and saw the familiar, comforting sight of his nightstand.

It had just been another nightmare. He breathed in deeply as his heart slowed down to a normal pace. But he could still hear all the jarring vibrations of the hexes.

As his brain woke up, he realized it was his phone. It was still tucked into his jeans pocket, which lay crumpled on the floor.

He groaned. The last thing he wanted was to get out of his comfortable bed and go fishing around for that bloody phone. And why wouldn’t it stop? What did Hermione want? She was pretty much the only person who called him. Ron still seemed unclear on how to use his, which Hermione forced on him.

He rolled to the other side of the bed and made himself sit up. The top of the phone stuck out of his pocket and flashed its little light.

“All right, all right,” Harry mumbled as he pulled it out. He slid the little answer button across the screen. “Yes?”

“Harry, where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning.”

Harry shut his eyes and fell backward onto his bed again. He cuddled the duvet all around him. “I’ve been sleeping, Hermione. What time is it?”

“Eleven-thirty. I was starting to worry.”

“That’s not that late.”

“I was _this close_ to coming over and checking if you got home okay. What time did you leave the pub last night?”

Harry tried to remember. The last thing he remembered about last night was… stumbling out of the pub with Neville and Malfoy.

“Malfoy!” Harry sat straight up and realized he was all alone. Which he knew, but it suddenly seemed important. Because if he was alone, that meant Malfoy was gone. And Malfoy was here last night.

“What about Malfoy? Did he do something to you?”

Harry felt like someone had just smacked him in the face.

“Harry?”

“I’m going to be sick, Hermione.”

“What?”

It wasn’t that the memory of him and Malfoy was disgusting, but it did make him panic, which in turn made his stomach churn horribly. And Harry remembered he had consumed quite a bit of the house lager last night. Amongst other things.

He ran into the loo just in time to wretch into the toilet.

“Harry! Harry, are you alright? Okay, I’m coming over right now.”

Harry grumbled into the receiver. He didn’t want to be a baby or anything, but… well, it would be nice if Hermione came over. She was a bit shrill, but she also made him brothy soup and brought hangover potions.

They had a bit of a Saturday morning routine.

He hung up and went in search of a glass of water. As he let the faucet run cold, he randomly thought of the dream again. That pop of Apparition had been real too, except it had been Malfoy Disapparating out of his flat.

The Floo crackled not half an hour later and Hermione popped out, ducking underneath the mantle. She carried a handbag which Harry knew to contain supplies.

“Hermione, you’re a lifesaver.” He flopped onto the sofa and waited for the fussing to commence.

He used to find it annoying, always batting her off and reminding her he could take care of himself. He didn’t need Hermione mothering him, he’d said. But ever since he started Auror Training and she started working in Creature Relations at the Ministry, they saw each other much less than usual, and Harry found that he rather relished this strange little ritual they’d developed. On most Saturday mornings, Hermione let Ron sleep in and she snuck over, always perched on that armchair. Harry nursed his hangover on the sofa. And they just talked and talked.

She handed him a steaming cup of tea with Hangover Potion mixed in. Harry inhaled its distinct lemony aroma.

“You look a little better,” Hermione said as she folded her legs underneath her. The oversized armchair swallowed her up. She took a sip of her own tea before adding, “I hate how much you drink, Harry.”

“I know.”

“You won’t listen to me if I tell you to stop, will you?”

“I can’t stop drinking altogether. That’s just… horrible.”

She sighed and pursed her lips. “I mean stop getting _so_ drunk.”

Harry shrugged.

“I just worry about you.”

“I know.”

She paused. She was staring at him, Harry knew; he didn’t even need to look up from his tea. He had heard this lecture so many times.

“Are you feeling okay? You seem to be much better than before. Maybe it’s all the training you’re doing, taking your mind off things. I’m glad you’re working so much, it’s good for you. Tires you out.”

Only Hermione would be happy someone was turning into a workaholic. Harry put his mug down on the coffee table; it had done its job and his stomach felt more settled, his head less poundy. “I am sleeping much better these days.”

“Are you?” She brightened up. “No more nightmares?”

“No.” He shook his head.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not just saying that to put me off?”

“I would never.”

“Because you know how much I worry, Harry.”

“I know. Honest, Hermione, I haven’t had a nightmare in ages. I think you’re right, it’s all the exercise. It puts me right out.”

She inhaled deeply but relaxed back into her seat. “So why are you still drinking so much?”

Unfortunately for him, it was not that easy to put Hermione off. Harry smirked; as annoying as it was, he loved her for it.

He wasn’t lying when he said he knew how much she worried. That’s why she didn’t have to know about every little nightmare of his. And after Hermione had seen the worst of them two years ago—during _that_ time, as they called it, none of them being quite able to talk about the war yet in any sort of casual way—he didn’t want her to have to worry about any more nightmares. And it wasn’t just the _being_ asleep part that sucked, it was the _getting_ to sleep part that was nearly impossible.

He wondered if he had slept so quickly last night because of the drunkenness or because of having someone so near.

“What’s that face?” Hermione asked, peering at him through those sharp eyes that missed nothing.

He had told Malfoy all that shit. He groaned, wondering how bad of an idea it would be to tell her, even as the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “Malfoy slept over last night.”

Her mouth dropped. “What?”

“I couldn’t Apparate so he brought me home. Hermione, I was… a bit of a mess.”

“Oh god, were you sick on him?”

“No!” The thought was mortifying enough to make what actually happened feel moderately less embarrassing… though very moderately. “No, thank god, I just…” He sighed, how should he put it? Obviously he was going to leave out certain unnecessary details. “I sort of told him too much, like about how badly I’ve been sleeping, how I sleep better with… with someone here.” He cringed at the memory. “So he slept here.”

“On the sofa?”

“Er… yes.”

“Oh.” She relaxed again back into her seat. “Well, that’s actually quite nice.”

Harry laughed dryly. “How is that nice, Hermione?”

“He wanted to help you, obviously. I know you refuse to hear it, but Malfoy isn’t all that bad anymore. He’s--”

“ _He’s changed_ ,” he said, mimicking her voice. It made her purse her lips, and he grinned broadly. “Why do you all love him now?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“He’ll probably run to the _Prophet_ and tell them I need to sleep with a teddy bear or something. Just to embarrass me.”

“Or he was just as drunk as you were and doesn’t even remember what you two were talking about. What did he say in the morning?”

“He left before I woke up.”

“Oh, I see. Well, you’ll see him this evening.”

A spike of anxiety rattled his stomach. “Shit, I’d forgotten all about that.” Dean’s art show was tonight. He would have to see Malfoy face to face. After they’d done… what they’d done. His cock started to stiffen as he remembered. He really needed to find himself a boyfriend or something.

“It doesn’t have to be awkward unless you make it so,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, I’d like to see how you’d react after sleeping with Malfoy.”

They both pulled a face at each other, and then they both giggled like little children. The mental image of Hermione and Malfoy together was clearly unsavory for both of them. At least for Harry, it definitely rankled and then lingered like an unbearable itch he wanted to scratch away.

 

\\\//

 

Draco stood in front of the painting, letting the weight gather in his chest. Looking at Thomas’ art was always like waiting for a storm to gather. It would start as a wisp of cloud floating through his mind, a thought: _Where was that little boy now?_ The one Thomas had brought to life on the canvas with broad strokes of color. The cloud grew fat and grey and fell to Draco’s throat, clogging up his airway. _How had the boy’s parents died?_ Thomas painted them as a shimmer in the background. The father’s ghostly hand wrapped silvery fingers over the boy’s shoulder. A portrait of a ruined family. A war orphan. _How could he ever be certain that Lucius hadn’t been the Death Eater who killed them?_ The cloud started to thunder in Draco’s chest.

“I’m going to buy this one.”

Draco turned to see Potter had come up to stand beside him. Draco’s heart stuttered, but only because he was surprised to see him.

Potter stared at the painting with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. At least he had thrown on a white button-down shirt to attempt to appear like he belonged in society. Furthermore, the shirt seemed to fit him. Draco was always shocked when Potter appeared in clothes that weren’t three sizes too large; or maybe his Auror training was bulking him up enough to fill them out. Probably a combination of both. The shirt he wore now ran along the lines of his trim waist and the sleeves betrayed his growing biceps.

But of course, he was still Potter. His hair still looked like he had just woken up, and a shadow of stubble covered his jawline.

Potter turned his head then, and his bright eyes captured Draco’s gaze and held it. “Dean has so many brilliant pieces, but this has been my favorite for a long time. Ever since I saw it in studio.”

Draco stiffened. “You can’t. I’m buying this one.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Absolutely not.”

Potter gave an affronted little huff as he seemed to tussle with Draco’s words. Then Potter stepped closer to him, and Draco smelled something familiar—shampoo? It brought every nerve in his body barreling back to last night, and Draco swallowed. “You’ll have to outbid me for it.”

“Is that a challenge, Potter?” He didn’t dare break eye contact or step away first. Potter was so close, their chests almost touched. It seemed like Potter’s lips were millimeters away. Those same lips had been on Draco’s just last night, he could taste them in his memory, so fucking delicious. Draco almost couldn’t believe it. Maybe last night had never happened and it was all part of some drunken delusion; because Potter—this scowling bloke in front of him who clearly hated him—couldn’t have kissed him like that.

“Fuck yes, it’s a challenge.”

“Fine. If you think you can afford to outbid me.”

Potter’s lips pulled into a surprisingly cocky smirk. “I’m not exactly struggling, Malfoy.”

“Oh?” Draco scanned Potter’s body as overtly as possible. Next to Draco in his tailored suit, Potter looked like he had just woken up in an alley. But his jeans hugged his thighs so well---and had they gotten more muscular? “So are you just trying to _pretend_ you’re homeless, then?”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to joke about homeless people?”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“I thought you gave money to the shelter at Hogsmeade,” Potter asked, rather accusatorily.

“Do I? I’m impressed you keep up with my charitable contributions, I didn’t know you took such an interest. My assistant handles all of that, I hope you’ve managed to receive some of those funds and they can help you with…” He waved at Potter’s person, mostly at his beat-up Converse, “...your situation.”

Potter was shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m joking, Potter, relax. I know for a fact you have a home.”

Potter’s eyes widened. Draco realized what he’d just done only after he’d said it.

He’d crossed the invisible line where they both pretended last night didn’t actually happen.

Well, the best defence was always offence, Draco had always known that. If he acted like it was a big deal, then Potter would make it one too. Obviously Potter regretted what had happened, how could he not? He had been blattered, for one thing. And he probably didn’t want to have snogged Draco, for another. Potter clearly fancied blokes, but Draco seriously doubted _he_ would have been Potter’s first choice for a drunken one off (and a drunken cuddle, he remembered with a warm tingle). No, it made much more sense that Draco had just been readily available. He’d been _there_ and Potter had been _needy_ and that’s why last night had happened.

“I’m just glad I won’t have to step foot in your place again,” he said as casually as he could.

“It was a total mistake.”

Draco nodded. “A disaster.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Of course it won’t.”

Potter stared at him for a moment, searching his face, and Draco had the crazy idea that he was going to punch him. Except that made no sense, Potter had no reason to punch him. Draco’s nerves were just shot, as usual.

But he was surprised to see Potter smile instead. “This’ll be hanging in my flat by the end of the night.”

“We’ll see about that, Potter. Now I need a drink.”

“So do I.”

“You’re sure you’re recovered?” It was Draco’s turn to smile, remembering how Potter had stumbled around like a drunken idiot. He walked toward the bar, and Potter followed him, hands in his pockets. “Who will carry you home tonight?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find someone,” Potter said.

Smug bastard. The horrible thing was, Draco knew it was true. Potter was the most sought-after person in London— hell, in Britain. He could easily pull if he wanted to.

“Do you often take random people home with you?” Draco asked. He intended it as a barb but it might have come out a little too genuinely curious.

Potter seemed to consider his words. “Would it annoy you greatly?”

Draco scoffed. “I really could care less about your love life, Potter. I’m much too busy and I have better things to think about.”

“That’s a shame. I was really hoping to annoy you.”

That was most definitely worth an eye roll. “Don’t worry,” Draco drawled, “you annoy me enough just by existing.”

“Oh, good.”

When they reached the bar, Luna Lovegood was standing next to it in a wispy gown that seemed to be growing poppies. Her hair was done in a braid woven with green tendrils that sprouted leaves. She looked just like Longbottom’s wet dream, or what Draco imagined that might look like. And though he desperately wanted to point that out, he made sure to bite his tongue.

Lovegood smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Are you thinking naughty thoughts, Draco?”

She never failed to be disconcertingly perceptive. Draco leaned in and gave her a small peck on the cheek. Potter seemed to be trying to kill him with his glare. He wondered if Potter fancied her. His chest felt suddenly hollow; it would make sense for Potter to fancy Lovegood. They had always been close, and they still hung around together from what Draco knew. Not that Draco kept track of Potter’s social life, it was just hard to miss the front page of the bloody _Prophet_ , which made it their business to keep track.

“No naughtier than usual,” Draco said. “What are you drinking? I’ll take one of the same.”

“It’s butterfly nectar.” Lovegood held up the glass of what looked like pure honey.

“Oh, no thank you.” Draco made a face and signaled the bartender. “I’ll take a scotch.”

“Why not?” Potter asked. “What’s butterfly nectar?”

“Are you actually that dim?”

Potter frowned, and Lovegood chirped happily, “Harry didn’t grow up in the wizarding world. There’s still a lot he doesn’t know.”

Oh yes, that was right. Draco could not contain the laughter that bubbled up in his throat.

“I’m glad you’re amused,” Potter said.

“I’ve changed my mind.” Draco caught the bartender’s attention again. “Don’t pour the scotch—we’ll take two more of those nectars there.”

Lovegood giggled.

“Luna, you’ll tell me, won’t you?” Potter gave her his big crooked grin, and Draco fleetingly wondered if Lovegood’s stomach did flips like his did.

“Butterfly nectar is aptly named,” Lovegood explained. “It makes you feel like you’ve got wings. Like you’re flying! You always liked flying, Harry.”

“And it strips you of most of your inhibitions,” Draco added. He felt that was worth mentioning. “Which is why I don’t touch the stuff.” The bartender placed their drinks in front of them. “But I will tonight if you will, Potter. I just have to see this.” Draco picked up the first glass and handed it to Potter, who took it with suspiciously narrowed eyes.

“I figure if Luna approves of it, then it likely won’t kill me,” Potter said.

“Don’t you trust me, Potter?”

“Not a chance.”

“That’s rude.” Draco turned away from him. “Though there is one thing I want to know: do you even have inhibitions, Lovegood?”

Potter snorted and muttered something like, ‘Speaking of rude,’ but Draco ignored him.

Lovegood didn’t seem even slightly phased. If there was one thing Draco respected, it was someone who could handle his sense of humour. “My father wrote an article for the Quibbler once,” she said. “It’s been proven by a 200-year-old warlock from Glastonbury that you only have inhibitions when the Worry Wizzies are flying around your head. Wizzies can’t stand the smell of butterfly nectar, you see, so when you drink it, they flutter away and leave you alone. So finally, you are free to be your true self and express your truest desires.”

Draco caught Potter’s eye. They both pressed their lips more tightly together.

“Yes, so be careful, Potter. Small sips to start.” Draco raised his glass to Potter before tasting it. The viscous liquid was too sweet and too thick at first, but Draco had tried it before so he knew what to expect; a few seconds later, a boatload of weight he never knew he carried simply up and lifted from his shoulders, and he felt like he was floating on a cloud. His head seemed to float high above his neck one moment, and the next he was perfectly intact.

He looked at Potter and saw the effects had settled over him as well. His green eyes were hazy, like he was dreaming while awake. Draco opened his mouth to laugh tauntingly at him but he couldn’t emit anything but a cheery titter. “How does it feel?”

Potter’s mouth was agape. “Like flying…” He looked down into his glass with awe. “This is what it feels like to be Luna.”

Draco almost keeled over with laughter—light, bubbly, joyous laughter—and pressed his body against Potter’s. He gripped his waist and whispered into his ear, a little too close as his lips brushed Potter’s skin. “Don’t say that, she’ll hear you.”

Potter turned his head to look at him, and his hand automatically came up to rest firmly on the small of Draco’s back. All the laughter left Draco much too suddenly and he felt dizzy. Perhaps he’d taken too large of a sip.

“When are you going to dance with us, Harry?” Lovegood asked. “Oh, please come soon. Everyone would be so inspired to have you there!”

Potter grimaced openly-- a thing Draco doubted he’d have done had he not been uninhibited-- and shook his head. “I told you, I don’t dance. And I don’t sing, either, so don’t even ask.”

Lovegood ran a barmy little musical troupe in the basement of the Diagon Alley Youth Center for Displaced Children and Teens. It was a sad, decrepit building that received the minimum amount of Ministry funding, since it was not a proper orphanage nor a school. Most philanthropists ignored it in favor of donating funds to more visible institutions that received more press. Frankly, most people didn’t know what to make of it. In Draco’s estimation, it was pretty much a badly managed shelter for runaways and misguided teens. Lovegood held her musical “classes” every evening.

One time, she had convinced Draco to attend one of their “shows”, so he had dragged his hungover arse to Diagon on a Saturday at eleven in the morning to listen to the horrid clanging and screeching of broken instruments and a sixteen-year-old soprano. It was horrifying. He immediately gave Lovegood a bag of Galleons so she could buy proper instruments and promised her he would never attend a performance again. He had never seen anyone so ecstatic before, and frankly he was a bit unnerved being hugged so hard.

“Music helps heal the soul,” Lovegood said. “Many older people come to our practices, too. It eases their traumatic memories from the war. You would do well to work on your own trauma, Harry. It’s not good to keep it pent up inside for so long.”

“Luna...” Potter groused. “I am not traumatised.”

“Yes, you are,” she said matter of factly.

“I’m perfectly fine, and even if I wasn’t, I don’t need to sing or dance to get over it. That would just traumatise me more.”

“Oh, make him come, Draco!” Lovegood turned to him now. “Tell him how much fun our show was.”

Draco pressed his lips together so that the nectar wouldn’t allow him to say anything he’d regret. Lovegood was a fine person, and one of the few people whose feelings he actively cared not to hurt.

“You went to a show?” Potter pinned him with a look, and Draco’s stomach fluttered.

“Don’t get too excited,” Draco teased, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m not a good person yet.”

Potter raised his eyebrows and faint smile pulled at his lips.

“But you dance all the time, Harry!” Lovegood pressed the matter. It was clear she wasn’t about to give up that easily.

“When?” Potter asked, truly baffled as he turned away from Draco to look at her. Draco took the opportunity to stare at his lips and stubbled jawline from this close up. Warmth radiated from where Potter’s fingers began to minutely stroke his back.

“Remember we went to that concert and we danced together? What was the band called? System Clowns?”

“ _System of a Down_.” Potter rolled his eyes. “And I wasn’t dancing.”

“It felt like very angry dancing.”

“That’s called head banging.”

“You danced together?” Draco asked, wishing immediately that he hadn’t. Luckily they either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. But the image of Potter and Lovegood dancing together made his stomach drop unpleasantly. Especially since it made so much sense and felt suddenly inevitable: Lovegood was kind and sweet, and how could Potter resist that? He loved that shit.

Then again, he had been blathering on about Weasley last night, hadn’t he? How he had wished it had been Ron in his bed instead.

Draco cleared his throat and pushed himself out of Potter’s grip, ignoring the confused look on his face. He took another large gulp of nectar, because fuck it, he needed to temper his depressing thoughts with inebriation. It was amazing how much he did that lately-- how much they all did. Perhaps that was why everyone dropped their old prejudices so readily. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as someone---someone who had been there too--- was around to get absolutely trashed with.

Potter grabbed the sleeve of Draco’s shirt, but Draco pulled away. An irritated frown formed on Potter’s face.

“You were right about me, Potter.” Oh fuck, the nectar was making him floaty again. He meant every word but there was no anger in him; the drink didn’t allow that. It was just facts. Just objective truths running from his lips. “Last night, at the pub. I’m a bad person. Everyone knows that.”

“I never said that!” Potter didn’t look like he was flying on a cloud anymore. Didn’t the nectar work the same way on him? For a moment Draco felt that almost paralysing, weighted awe he sometimes felt around Potter when he remembered just how magically _strong_ he was.

“Drink more, god damn it,” Draco blurted, aware he was hardly making sense. The world was becoming fuzzy all around him. He looked down at the glass in his hand. Oh fuck, he had finished the entire thing.

Lovegood’s face was bright pink with happiness. Everything else surrounding her was hazy but her face shone bright and euphoric. As if through a dense fog, he looked up at Potter. Potter’s face became clear among the clouds as well, and though not unpleasant, he was still frowning slightly.

Potter reached out for him. “Come here.”

Part of him wanted to listen, but Potter’s energy felt cloistering to Draco’s nectared state. He slanted his hips away from Potter’s impending grasp. “You’re being handsy, Potter,” he admonished, feeling absolutely no desire to censor himself. “If you want a repeat of last night, go find someone else this time. You said you could.”

Potter shook his head. “I don’t want to.” Then his eyes widened at what he’d said, his lips parting in what was probably horror and shock. The air around Potter was thick with emotion.

Draco was glad when Dean’ voice reverberated over the gallery in a crisp Sonorous, asking them to take their seats for dinner.

Draco made his way through the hazy room, meandering around blurry figures, and luckily he spotted Dean waving at him. He already sat in one of the six seats around a round table that Draco knew was reserved for the event’s benefactors.

“Oi, Draco, over here.”

Draco clapped Dean on the back before plopping into the seat beside him. Three of the other seats were already occupied by two witches and a wizard Draco had never seen before—oh no, that left only one open seat, and Draco knew who’d be sitting there.

“The show is fantastic, Thomas,” Draco said, pushing that thought away. “You’re brilliant, really; an artistic genius. I’m sure you’ll sell every piece and earn a shit ton of money for the children or the old people or whomever.”

“For the love of god, I hope you’re right.” Dean’s eyes slanted on him, and then landed on the glass in Draco’s hand. It was, for the most part, empty, but Dean wore a shrewd, knowing expression anyway.

“Well if you don’t, I’ll buy them all.” Draco shot him a grin he hope was not as floaty and wonky as Lovegood’s. Though in all likelihood, it probably was.

Dean chuckled. “You and Harry are the absolute best friends a starving artist can ask for.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, I’m much better than him.”

“Than who?” Potter interjected—rather rudely—as he took his seat. He leaned one elbow on the table to face him and Dean. “Who are you better than, Malfoy? And don’t say everyone, that’s too obvious coming from you.”

“Oh, here we go.” Dean sighed.

“Don’t tell him we were talking about him,” Draco said as if Potter wasn’t there. “It’ll only go to his already overinflated head.”

“Fine, I’ll bite,” Potter said. “What could possibly make you think you’re better than me?”

“It’s simple. I’m smarter, funnier, and much better looking.”

They quibbled for a bit longer, with Dean making exasperated remarks trying to referee them. Eventually the starter salad appeared with a pop in front of them, and Dean excused himself, announcing that it was time for the opening speeches.

“You all have something prepared?” Dean asked the table. The other three benefactors nodded pleasantly, and Potter groaned beside him. Draco’s speech was tucked into his breast pocket on his secretary’s prefered stationary.

 

\\\//

 

Dean cleared his throat into his wand, and slowly, the voices in the room hushed one by one until there was silence. Draco could tell Dean wasn’t used to having so much attention on him.

“I would like to thank everyone for coming.”

He cleared his throat again.

“I have been working on this exhibit for over a year, each piece as unique as its subject. My focus was on families and individuals who were affected by the war; because really, isn’t that all of us? I wanted to document how my subjects’ lives have changed and to bring their stories to the forefront. As you all know, our world has faced some of its most potent challenges since the war ended over two years ago. We have worked collectively to rebuild our towns, our schools—our beloved Hogwarts, especially—and our government. Well, these paintings represent the challenges faced by individuals who have had to rebuild their lives in private, and who represent each of us in some way. I hope when you look upon the pieces in this gallery that you are touched by the stories they depict.”

Dean looked around the room, smiling in their direction.

“I would like to give a special thanks to our benefactors, without whom tonight might not be possible. And a very special thanks, in particular, to Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, who together gave sixty-six percent of the contributions.”

He paused for the round of applause that thundered from that statement. Draco glanced at Potter, who ducked his head as an eruption of flashes emanated from the photographers. An urge he had never felt before made him want to conjure a shield.

“The auction will start in a couple of hours,” Dean continued. “Until then, please enjoy lunch and take advantage of the open bar. Thank you again, everyone, for attending.”

Draco was exceedingly glad the other three benefactors got up before him, but he wished he had refilled his glass because the Don’t Give A Shit effect of the nectar was starting to wear off and his nerves were starting to creep around in its place.

Soon, Draco found himself walking up the podium. It wasn’t a particularly high platform, but the lofty gallery looked different from up here. Smaller. Everyone looked bored. They had listened to four people speak already about the same exact things: how the war was so devastating, how this auction was going to make so much money for the children, how Dean was such a talent. Draco looked down at the speech his secretary had prepared for him and, scanning the unfolded paper quickly, saw it was much of the same. He raised his head again to the expectant crowd, many of whom were giving him quizzical looks that said, why haven’t you started talking?

“I don’t know if any of you know,” Draco started, ignoring the speech in front of him completely and hoping he wasn’t buggering himself up the arse for it, “but I gave way more money to this thing than Potter did.” He bit his lip as the silence loomed, quite expecting the crickets to start. He couldn’t hold back his grin. “Just to piss him right off.”

There was an explosion of laughter, as well as some disapproving gasping (probably from Granger and other marmish old witches of the like) and some gaping mouths. The nerves left his stomach and buzzed pleasantly once more. Draco had always loved an audience. One that responded well, of course.

He glanced at Potter and could not for the life of him resist a chuckle as Potter shook his head in disbelief.

“Yes, and he still gets the last speaking spot, the spot of honour. Which he rightly deserves,” he added quickly (he wasn’t stupid or suicidal), raising his empty glass. Why had he brought this up with him? Ah well, everyone raised their glasses with him. Apparently all one had to do to gain an audience’s approval these days was to say loads of lovely things about Potter. Draco might have been irked if he weren’t so amused.

“But that’s all right,” he continued, “I can live with second best. (Even though I was the first best, since I did give the most money),” he added in hushed tones that elicited a few chuckles from the crowd. “You know why? Well it’s because I’ve figured out another way to tick Potter off. It’s exceedingly fun, you see. I’m going to win that painting right over there.” He pointed to the painting of the little boy, across the room. Heads turned in unison to look at it. “So don’t any of you go trying to bid on it, because there will be no point. I intend to beat Potter to it, even though he doesn’t think I can.”

“We’d love to see that!” someone hollered from the crowd, and then cheers and clapping nearly deafened Draco as grinned.

Dean’s face was in his hands.

“Thank god someone got him down,” Potter said as soon as he took the podium. The clapping and cheers for that stung only a little bit; Draco suspected just seeing their Saviour was enough to drive these people mental. Plus Potter’s smile made him think Potter was just teasing him. Playing into Draco’s joke. Which made the nerves flutter back to his stomach but not in an unpleasant way. “Don’t let him near any more alcohol. And the nerve of him, thinking he’s going to outbid me. Yes, Malfoy, we know your daddy left you all his money, no need to keep reminding us.”

Potter grinned directly at Draco, and despite his slight embarrassment from the way the crowd laughed and clapped, Draco felt like the only person in the room. Potter’s speech was for him. Not for anyone sitting here. Not for the press. For him.

He wondered if Potter had a speech planned as well.

Probably not. This was Potter. If anything, Granger had written something proper for him to say but he had planned to ignore it -- or had lost it-- anyways.

“But if he thinks he’s going to win that painting,” Potter addressed the crowd again, “he’s sorely mistaken. Because that’s _my_ painting.”

Dean groaned next to him at the table. “You two are going to be the death of me, you know,” he said, leaning in so Draco could hear above the ruckus Potter was causing. “And you started it.” He pointed his finger at him.

“Potter usually starts it!” And this was true! Anyone could see-- ask Pansy, ask Neville -- that Potter always started it lately. “All I am is nice. I haven’t been this nice to anyone in my entire life. Do you know what this does to me? Being so nice to Potter all the time?”

“Oh, what torture that must be.” Dean rolled his eyes.

 

\\\//

 

“Why did you let me win?”

They walked outside in the cool autumn air as people filtered all around them. After the auction wrapped up and the photographers had got their fill, Potter was allowed to leave (with Granger’s permission) and find the Apparition spot. It was kind of thrilling to be all mysterious and sneak off with him. Which is the only reason Draco followed him.

Potter shrugged. “I wanted you to have it.” He bit his lip and toyed with a frayed seam near his jeans pocket. It was hard to tell if he was still drunk off the nectar, but he must be. Why else would he do something like that? Something so nice, for Draco?

“I don’t suppose you’re changing your mind about me?”

“What?” Potter grinned and lowered his chin sheepishly. “That you’re a horrible Kneezle kicker?”

Draco nodded, letting his lips curl up.

“I thought you didn’t care.”

No words could describe how glad he was that his own inhibitions had solidly returned. He had no desire to tell Potter that he actually did care, and rather a lot.

“I don’t,” he said instead, though it wasn’t clear whether or not Potter believed him.

Potter opened his mouth as if to say something, but he hesitated, and then shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Malfoy. If the painting means a lot to you, then I want you to have it.”

The painting of an orphaned boy with the ghosts of his parents standing behind him. A rush of emotion rolled over Draco so hard, he almost reached out and grabbed Potter’s arm, and it seemed only the tight nerves in his stomach kept him from doing so. It was so blatantly obvious why Potter had wanted that painting-- Draco must be the world’s biggest idiot. How could he now have thought it earlier? How did he rant and rage like a spoiled child who wasn’t about to get his way?

Then again, maybe he had wanted it for those same reasons. Maybe subconsciously, looking at that painting made him feel like he did now, looking into Potter’s face.

Suddenly he was glad he got to keep it, in a spiteful, possessive way.

“Is Weasley staying at Granger’s tonight?”

Potter’s cheeks flushed. “Yeah, he is. But it’s fine, you don’t have to pretend to be concerned. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I don’t feel bad for you, Potter.” It was clear that showing any sympathy would get him nowhere with Potter, as it would only embarrass him. Perhaps Draco should try another approach. One that greatly appealed. “Maybe I just want a do-over. Perhaps in bed this time, instead of the sofa.”

His breath caught in his throat as he waited for the inevitable rejection. Potter’s face flushed a gorgeous pink colour.

“What’s happening here, Malfoy?”

“I don’t know.” It was the only honest thing he could say. The only thing he knew was this feeling in his gut that he wasn’t ready to part ways with Potter tonight. Not yet.

Not to mention that other feeling, the one that made his cock harden at the thought of getting the chance to repeat the previous night.

“Do we want to do this?” Potter asked.

“That depends what you think _this_ is.”

“I’m not quite sure. Up until yesterday I thought you hated me.”

Draco couldn’t help it, he started to laugh, a dry and disbelieving sound. “Are you serious, Potter? I hated _you_?”

“You became friends with all my friends, would go up to everyone and give them hugs and kisses, and when it came to me you wouldn’t come a foot near me! What was I supposed to think?”

His brain rushed to process the sudden revelation into Potter’s feelings. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his cigarettes. If there was one thing he desperately needed to continue this conversation, it was a smoke.

He tapped the box in his palm and pulled out a slim cigarette. “Are you trying to say,” he said as he held it in his mouth and lit it with his wand, “that you are actually jealous?”

Potter rolled his eyes and let out a huffy laugh, running his hand behind his neck. “That’s ridiculous---Jealous! No, I---You---”

It was all so bizarre and frankly a lot to take in. He had every indication to think Potter despised him. Potter basically went out of his way to make him think so. And Potter kept going on about Weasley and how he missed him and wanted him to sleep at home more. But then there was the fact that Potter did get off rutting against Draco’s prone body… So perhaps the only thing Draco knew for certain at the moment was that Potter liked cock. Which led him to the same question.

“So do you want me to come over or not?”

Potter’s teeth rolled his lower lip as he stared at him. Draco exhaled as he waited for Potter to deliberate. The only thing was, the longer he waited, the more he was starting to feel pathetic.

“You know what, forg--”

“Yes.”

“Hm?” Draco’s heart made an erratic beat.

“Yes. I want you to come over.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

Breathe out

So I can breathe you in

Hold you in

And now

I know you've always been

Out of your head

Out of my head I sang

  


The moment they landed in his living room, Potter’s hands were on Draco’s hips and then slowly roaming back over his arse. It seemed that Potter didn’t want to waste any time. Draco wasn’t about to complain, especially not with Potter’s lips pressing demanding kisses into the sensitive skin of Draco’s neck. A moan escaped him, which only caused Potter to attack him harder.

Draco’s cock was hardening fast. He ran one hand through Potter’s messy hair, carding his fingers through it and then gripping hard. Potter’s kisses were moving lower on his throat, over his chest, until he couldn’t go lower. Lifting his head , Potter undid the top three buttons of Draco’s shirt, grabbing the two sides and ripping them apart. Whether it was sheer strength or some of Potter’s magic, Draco didn’t know, but soon his shirt was untucked from his trousers and hanging open, the buttons completely ruined.

Not that he cared about the damn buttons. Potter began kissing his stomach. Every nerve in Draco’s body seemed to send desperate signals to his cock. It now strained against his trousers, a thick bulge that Potter’s chin sometimes brushed against and set off fires of want.

Potter’s lips were so soft against the skin of his stomach. Draco bit his lip and breathed hard, keeping his hand in Potter’s hair. He could see where Potter was going, and he swallowed, telling himself to please, please not blow his load after one blow job.

Potter looked up at him and Draco knew he was doomed. Potter knelt before him, eyes intense and strangely bright, like there was a fire inside Potter that burned brightest when he was driving Draco insane. Potter grinned crookedly, showing teeth, and it was the most devious thing Draco had ever seen.

He undid the zipper in Draco’s trousers, opening them up and shoving them only halfway down Draco’s thighs. Free of its confines, Draco’s cock all but sprung into Potter’s face. Potter’s breath ghosted over the head, over Draco’s cotton black boxer-briefs. He tilted his head and mouthed along the shaft, and even through the fabric, his lips seared Draco’s skin.

Draco gripped the grey elastic and pushed his pants down, his cock bobbing. He left them covering his balls, he didn’t know why, but perhaps it felt dirtier this way. Potter on his knees facing just his hard cock, with his lips parted like that. Draco groaned low in his throat, taking his shaft in hand and directing it into the circle of Potter’s mouth.

Using his hand in Potter’s hair, he guided the shiny head in past Potter’s lips.

“Mm, fuck, yes,” Draco grunted. “Suck on it. Just like that.”

Potter hollowed his cheeks as he sucked the head like a damn lolly. Draco shut his eyes momentarily, unable to handle the silky suction.

His hips pressed forward on their own, and Potter opened his mouth more, taking in half of Draco’s cock. His mouth was so hot and wet, his tongue blissful on the bottom of Draco’s shaft. Draco pulled out and then pushed back in, this time pressing into the back of Potter’s throat trying to get the full length of his cock in.

Potter gagged and tried to pull his head away, his hands squeezing Draco’s hips. He couldn’t pull off completely because Draco still had him by the hair, but Draco pulled out a bit to let him breathe. Potter’s neck and cheeks had turned red. Such a beautiful fucking color.

Potter grinned around his cock and for one unnerving moment, Draco wondered if he had read his thoughts. But a moment later, Potter was sucking his cock into his mouth again, and Draco stopped thinking. All he knew was the glorious pleasure of Potter’s mouth. He bobbed his head up and down in a mesmerizing rhythm, keeping it up impressively. When he sucked on the way down, Draco almost came.

“Close…” he exhaled. “Ah!”

Potter went faster, making little moaning noises, sometimes a slurp here or there. Draco wasn’t going to last. He felt it building and building, and he squeezed his grip in Potter’s hair until Potter squeaked. Potter brought his hand to the base of Draco’s shaft, and the tugging coupled with the wet suction of Potter’s lips was too much. Draco came, glad for Potter’s other hand on his hip. He let go of his hair and placed both hands on his shoulders, his knees feeling like they might buckle at any moment.

When it was over, he looked down to see Potter licking his lips. His cock gave a final twitch when he realized Potter had swallowed.

Good thing the sofa was right there. Draco turned and fell into it.

Potter got off his knees and came to sit down next to him, his body warm and solid. Draco had the sudden urge to take him up in his arms and hold him tight, to bury his face in Potter’s neck and settle in post-orgasmic bliss until his heart stopped battering his chest.

But Potter’s eyes were still hungry. He hadn’t come yet, and Draco knew it was now his turn to pay some attention to Potter’s dick.

Potter took Draco’s hand in his almost tenderly, threading their fingers together. Draco’s skin was still so overly sensitised, and Potter’s hand such a perfect fit.

Potter guided Draco’s hand to his lap, pressing it into his crotch. A small, cheeky smile curved on Potter’s lips.

Draco returned it, using both hands to undo the button and zipper of Potter’s jeans. He reached in, and the first grip around Potter’s hardness sent a renewed shiver through Draco’s body. He pulled Potter’s cock out from the slit in his pants, and he began to stroke it. It was so velvety smooth, the foreskin moving with Draco’s hand.

He dragged his thumb over the slit to spread Potter’s own wetness over his shaft, getting it slippery enough for a comfortable pull up and down. Potter leaned his head back on the sofa as he watched—sometimes Draco’s hand, and sometimes his eyes flittering up to Draco’s face. It caused Draco’s heart to thump madly for some reason.

He could tell when Potter was close, all the muscles in his arms tensing. He had no idea what came over him but Draco leaned in and kissed along Potter’s jawline as he continued to jerk Potter off to conclusion. His lips fell to Potter’s warm neck just as Potter’s mouth fell open and he groaned desperate little _oh, oh…_ ’s into Draco’s ear. His come shot wet and hot onto Draco’s fist.

 

\\\//

 

Now that they had sated each other and Draco had a chance to look around, he realized that Potter’s flat looked different than it did last night. Then again, last night Draco had been drunk, and this time it was only early evening. With a clear head it was all so much more real. And in a weird way, like it was missing something; as much as he looked, Draco could see no outward sign of Weasley living there. The door to the second bedroom was closed. Were all of Weasley’s things tucked away in there? Did he never lounge on the sofa with Potter and leave a jumper out, or stack extra shoes in the entrance, or hang a coat and scarf on the hook?

Draco suddenly wondered if Potter spent most of his time here alone.

They had cleaned up, not just a little awkwardly, and Potter had offered to make Draco some tea.

“So how much time did you say Weasley spends at Granger’s?” He followed Potter into the small but open kitchen.

Potter opened a cupboard and pulled out two mugs, striped scarlet and gold. “Pretty much every night.” He busied himself with the pot, filling it from the tap and turning on the burner. “Unless Hermione has taken a lot of work home with her and kicked him out.”

“I live alone.”

Potter finished his work and turned to Draco with thoughtful eyes. “You know, I never once thought about where you lived. I assumed you lived with your parents at—well, do they still live at the Manor?”

So they were going to have this conversation. “Do you mind if I smoke in here?” He leaned against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles, and reached for his pack again.

Potter’s eyes raked down the line of his legs, making him want to twitch self-consciously. He was glad he didn’t.

“No.” Potter shook his head. “Go ahead.”

Draco lit the cigarette, took a long inhale and relished that initial rush, and then held it between two fingers. “I have a place in the Chelsea wizarding block. I bought it last year after my parents went quite mad and tried to marry me off to a woman.” He smiled at the horror on Potter’s face. “Yes, it was all quite a big fuss. Father and I almost killed each other. Mother, bless her, tried her best to referee us and establish a modicum of peace, but I don’t think her nerves could handle it, and now she spends most of her time messing about in the garden. They do still live at the Manor,” he added, to answer Potter’s previous question.

“And Neville tends to her begonias.”

“Chrysanthemums.”

“Right. Well, I’m sorry about your father.”

“Are you?” Draco inhaled deeply from his cigarette. If there was one topic that could spoil this evening, it was his father, and he really didn’t want to get Potter all tense and irritated.

Potter sighed. “He’s your father. I’m sorry you had a rough patch with him.”

“Mm. It was more than a rough patch.” He flicked the ashy tip into the sink. “We don’t really talk.”

Potter’s eyes were so intense and green as he stared at Draco, as if he was trying to look right through to his soul.

“Thanks,” Draco whispered.

Potter took a step toward him, but as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, the kettle chose to begin its screaming. Potter’s attention snapped to the stove and he removed the kettle from the heat.

Draco accepted the very Gryffindor mug without comment. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but there was something strangely comforting about being in Potter’s flat and using Potter’s things, even if they were Gryffindor-themed things. His own flat seemed frigid in comparison.

“Let’s go sit in there,” Potter said.

Draco followed him into the living room where Potter set his mug down on the coffee table and sank into the sofa. With not unpleasant anticipation running through him and making his pulse quicken, Draco did exactly the same. Potter’s knees bumped into his, and even that small contact send warm tingles over his skin.

It was odd that, even though they had just gotten each other off, this was even more nerve wracking. He suddenly realized they hadn’t kissed. Not on the lips.

He remembered kissing Potter last night and how incredible that felt; it made his chest do mad things.

But they had not kissed this time, and Draco wasn’t sure if he should just do it. He wanted to, he was certain about that—it was impossible to deny even to himself—and he stared at Potter’s mouth for a moment before he realized he was staring.

Potter picked up an odd contraption from the side table. “Want to watch some telly?” He flung himself back onto the sofa, moving away and spreading his knees to get comfortable.

Swallowing, Draco picked up his mug and took a large gulp. It was too hot and it slightly burned his throat.

He had heard of televisions, of course—had even watched one, one time, very briefly—but he was not particularly sure what was so great about them. The only thing that made sense to him was that they had programmes that reported the news. That was sensible, at least, although he did prefer the newspaper.

“Have you ever seen Law & Order?” Potter asked. The programme showed two men in police uniform questioning someone in a bare room.

“What is it?”

“I take that is a no, then. This is one of my favorite shows. It’s about the police who catch criminals and then the lawyers go to trial to prove it.”

“Don’t you get enough of that at work?”

Potter grinned. “You would think, wouldn’t you?”

Finding himself too tired to complain, Draco resigned himself to watching. Actually, it was not as terrible as he imagined. It was a bit boring in places, but with Potter explaining some of the goings on, Draco was able to follow along with the mystery. They had another cup of tea each before the show was over; Potter got up to pour it during the adverts.

By the time the programme ended, the street lamps had come on outside, shining cool white light into the living room through the two windows. Everything seemed peaceful. Being in Potter’s flat, squished into his large sofa, sort of made the time go by faster than normal.

Still, he was aware that he didn’t belong, and a nagging feeling in his gut started to make him antsy after the second mug of tea. What if Weasley came home? What if he brought Granger with him? No, no, the whole thing made him panic a bit.

“I should get going,” he said when the credits finally rolled and the theme music played.

“Oh… Right.” Potter seemed to sit more stiffly.

“It’s late,” Draco offered by way of explanation—not that he needed an explanation, because since when was it normal for him and Potter to hang out? “You have a roommate who might find this a bit odd,” he added as a means of making a joke, but it came out too worrisome.

“I told you, Ron usually spends his nights at Hermione’s. And it’s Saturday so she’s likely dragged him off to a date.” Potter’s face lit up. “Ron pretends he’s too cool to take her out on fancy dates, but I think he secretly likes it. You know, the nice restaurants and all that. The food alone is probably worth it.”

As if on cue, Draco’s stomach gave a dull growl. Draco chuckled at himself, and Potter raised his eyebrows.

“I should go before I starve to death.”

“Or… we could … get food delivered here.” Potter shrugged. “I could eat.”

“Sure,” Draco said before he could stop himself. “Why not?”

Potter lifted his hips and pulled his phone out of his back pocket, tapping at it like an owl pecking at a treat. Why did people use those damn Muggle contraptions?

“Why don’t you just Owl for delivery?”

Potter didn’t look up, and continued alternately sliding his thumb around the screen and tapping. “This is so much easier. Not to mention faster.”

Draco frowned. He got decidedly prickly whenever someone favorably compared a Muggle device to a wizarding one.

“It looks stupid.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “You sound like an old man.”

“What?”

“Like one of those old Pur-- old wizards who can’t get his head out of his arse and accept changing culture.”

“That doesn’t make me old, it makes me loyal.” When Potter raised an eyebrow and looked unconvinced, Draco elaborated. “If there’s anything I am for sure, it’s a traditionalist.”

“If there’s anything you are for sure, Malfoy, it’s a wanker.”

“Speak for yourself.” Eh. It was the best he could come up with. Besides, Potter was still engrossed in his phone. Despite himself, Draco shifted over just the tiniest bit and leaned in. “What kind of food are you ordering anyway?”

Potter turned his head to see Draco was closer to him, and smiled. He lowered the phone so Draco could see the screen. “Just looking through the options,” he said as he scrolled with his thumb.

The list seemed endless: Thai restaurants, Indian restaurants, Chinese, Italian, Irish pub food, fish and chips places, pizza places...

“And these are all in the area?”

Potter nodded and winked. “And all Muggle. Is that going to ruin your appetite?”

“I suppose I could try it… Just this once!” He pursed his lips. “I want pizza.”

Potter’s head shot toward him again, eyes wide, a grin beginning to form.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had pizza before, Potter.” Draco smirked. “What an old Pureblood geezer you are.”

“You’ve had pizza?” Potter seemed more enthused by this than was probably necessary.

It was a nice rush to get to surprise him. Draco was pleased with himself.

“So how do you get the pizza now?”

“Let’s pick one first. What kind do you want?” Potter clicked on something that made all kinds of options crop up. “Pepperoni? Sausage?”

“You like sausage, do you?”

Potter blushed and let out a huff of laughter. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“What? I didn’t make you _love_ sausage.”

“Fuck _off_.”

It was maddeningly satisfying to watch Potter cheeks flush like that as he got all riled up.

“Can I click?” Draco didn’t wait for an answer before reaching over Potter’s arm for the phone.

Potter pulled it away. “No, you were making fun of it, you don’t get to use it.”

“I just want to click the topping I want.”

“I’ll do it for you, stop.”

Draco pulled Potter’s arm but Potter took the phone up in his other hand and held it up, and Draco practically had to climb on top of him to reach it.

“Let me--”

“No,” Potter said as Draco straddled his lap. “You’ll break it.”

“How will I break it? Give it to me!” Aha! All he had to do was wiggle his arse harder against Potter’s lap, which seemed to have paralyzing effects on Potter’s person. Draco snagged the phone from his gift, feeling decidedly triumphant.

He could have jumped off then, but Draco stayed put in Potter’s lap, pretending this was normal and no big deal. Like they did it all the time. Potter’s hands fell to his thighs, and that settled the matter for Draco; he was never moving.

He scrolled through the options, unable to control the smirk that pulled his lips. He knew Potter was looking at him intently, he could feel it. Draco felt warm all over.

“Let’s see…” Draco tapped his selection. “Margherita.”

“And mushroom.” Potter’s voice was a little throatier than usual. His hardening cock was making itself known against Draco’s arse, and Draco bit his tongue in an effort not to press back into it.

If he looked at Potter right now, he might kiss him. Something held him back, and he didn’t want to cross that line into intimacy when he had no idea if Potter wanted it. The only thing he knew was that Potter wanted to fuck him, he wanted another person in his bed at night, and he was slowly letting down his guard and being nice around Draco. Finally. If Draco pushed too hard and fucked it up, he would curse himself. Sure, they had kissed last night, but they had both been pissed out of their minds. No, it was best to let Potter make the first move.

With that thought in mind, he fell off Potter’s lap and back into his own corner of the sofa. The fact that Potter didn’t hold on to his hips and keep him from rolling off only solidified his resolve: he wouldn’t kiss Potter first.

Potter helped him finish the food order, and it was actually not that bad learning how to use the phone. It seemed convenient enough. Not that he would admit that out loud.

While they waited, Potter scrolled through all kinds of films titles on the telly. Not being up to date on the Muggle entertainment scene, Draco had never heard of any of them. He found himself quite enjoying Potter’s descriptions of each one, watching his hands move and how animated his face got as he explained the film’s premise. They settled on something called _The Fast & the Furious: Tokyo Drift_, because Draco liked the sound of the cars. There was something about cars that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but they had always sounded fucking exhilarating.

Draco didn’t even notice the time pass as they sat and watched the film, eating pizza and laughing and talking. It was even fun letting Potter explain things to him about the Muggle world when there was something in the movie he didn’t understand. It got chillier as the night commenced and Draco told Potter to pass him that blanket over there on the other chair. Potter, being a lazy sod, Accio’d it instead of inconveniencing himself and reaching over.

“I could have just done that,” Draco said.

“Then why didn’t you?”

He didn’t even notice when Potter had picked up the other end of the large blanket and tucked himself under it. They were sharing a blanket. It was more unnerving than it should have been. Not that they were anywhere close to touching, but that was definitely Potter’s body heat mingling with his own. It made the situation ten times more awkward when the people on the screen started to kiss.

Muggles did this? They just watched other people have sex on the television? His heart sped up as he realized his cock was reacting.

He looked over and saw that Potter was sitting very stiffly as he stared at the screen. Maybe he was turned on too and was trying not to show it.

Since they were under a blanket…

Draco pretended to watch the film as he snuck his hand closer to his groin and rubbed lightly over his crotch. It felt so nice, and he got an extra rush from being so close to Potter and secretly touching himself. He tried to be careful with how much he moved his hand, careful not to disturb the blanket. He wiggled a little to undo his trousers, and Potter’s eyes slanted to him. Draco paused, his heart racing. When he was fairly certain Potter’s attention had returned to screen, he dipped his hand into his pants and touched himself.

Unfortunately, a tiny groan escaped him.

Potter definitely noticed that. His chest rose and fell as he stared at Draco, who couldn’t help his shy smirk. Why wasn’t Potter saying anything? Why wasn’t he looking away?

Since he was found out and it turned out to be only mildly embarrassing, Draco decided to just spread his legs. What was the use pretending? He leaned his head back on the sofa and gave himself a nice, hard tug.

He could feel Potter’s burning stare.

The characters on the screen were just blurry images now as he stroked himself, sighing occasionally on a particularly sensitive downstroke. He was unprepared for the feel of Potter’s body nudging against his.

Potter had scooted closer at some point. They sat pressed together from shoulder to leg, and Draco’s nerves raged along every point of contact. Potter’s hand, warm and firm, intruded into Draco’s pants and pushed his hand out of the way. Draco shifted and pulled his pants down to give Potter better access.

The stroke of Potter’s fist was a million times better than his own. The room seemed to have gotten swelteringly hot in no time at all. Potter ran his hand over the head of Draco’s cock, swirling his precome down and slicking up his shaft. His firm grip and even strokes turned Draco into a puddle.

Potter pretended to watch the film as he did it, only a tiny smile outwardly exposing him. Draco wanted to wipe that self-satisfied look off his face. So he reached underneath Potter’s arm and found his fly.

Potter momentarily paused in his strokes, biting his lip and Draco did his work on the zip. But he managed to get a sharp inhale out of Potter when he grabbed Potter’s cock.

Soon they were both breathing hard through parted lips, each stroking the other under the blanket. The heat they generated made it easy, all sweaty and slick with slippery precome aiding their work. Draco looked up to see that Potter’s head was already turned and he stared at him with such lust in his eyes, it made strange things happen in Draco’s chest. He tightened his grip on Potter’s cock, eliciting a groan from him. He wanted it to be as good for Potter as it was for him, and seeing Potter’s eyelashes flutter like that was a delicious reward.

It blew his mind that he had made Potter come for a second time by rubbing him off. Because he had made Potter come! That alone was still unreal to Draco.

He came soon after, all over Potter’s fist.

 

\\\//

 

“I really do have to go now,” Draco said as they put the remaining pizza in the kitchen. The clock on the wall said it was one in the morning. When had the time flown by?

They had seen another movie, a horror film that Draco pretended did not scare him at all, and had a little bit more pizza.

Potter was oddly quiet as he shrunk the cardboard boxes and placed them in the bin.

“Or,” Draco continued, “I could just stay here.”

Potter bit his lip as he smiled. “I can give you pajamas.”

He gave Draco a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt. Draco almost got hard again as he slipped into them; they smelled like Potter. Now he smelled like Potter. And he was climbing into Potter’s very Potter-smelling bed with Potter’s sheets and Potter’s pillowcase against his head.

And Potter’s toned and gorgeous self lying down next to him.

If he hadn’t come twice that evening, he might have been unable to resist grabbing Potter and kissing him first.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

And I wonder

If everything could ever feel this real forever

If anything could ever be this good again

 

He chased Bellatrix across the dark Persian rug in the Manor’s library. She eluded him, slipping through a doorway framed by carved wooden columns. He followed the sound of her cackling laughter. He couldn’t let her get away; she couldn’t have him.

He found her in the parlour next to the grand piano, standing over Draco’s prone form. Harry’s vision went as red as the blood seeping onto the hardwood. Bellatrix threw her head back and screamed as she banged on the piano’s keyboard, emitting horrible, deep, echoing notes that jarred Harry from his sleep.

 

 

\\\//

 

Harry woke up with a gasp. His heart was still racing but it gradually slowed down when he realized he was actually in his room. His extremely bright room. He had to do something about that. Curtains? He should text Hermione about getting him curtains.

It was then that he realized that Draco Malfoy was sound asleep next to him. He was facing Draco Malfoy’s back.

Harry froze and let the butterflies settle in his stomach as he looked over Draco’s body. The blanket had slipped off him and only covered him from the knees down, and as a result, Draco curled up in a ball with his hands under his head. Harry bit his lip when he saw the way the pajama bottoms-- his own pajama bottoms -- clung to the curve of Draco’s arse. They rode low on his hips, hugging the round globes like a second skin.

The low noise that escaped Harry’s throat would have been embarrassing if Draco had been awake to hear it.

He itched to grab it. How amazing would it feel to be able to put his hands on Draco’s arse anytime he wanted? For Draco to be his, and to have that arse at his disposal.

The desire suddenly overwhelmed him. He wanted too much. Harry was struck by the weight of his realization; that he wanted something more than just getting to fuck Draco once. He wanted to get to fuck him whenever he wanted him. He wanted Draco around more, and to wake up to this vision in his bed every morning.

He could think about that later-- or likely, just shove it away and try never to think about it again. Right now, he knew exactly what he wanted, and it was a much simpler concept to wrangle with.

Placing his hand on Draco’s waist, Harry leaned into him and kissed the back of his neck. He smelled so fucking good, and his skin was warm and soft. Harry kissed him again, at the crook of his neck and shoulder, letting the flutters in his stomach run wild.

Draco stirred, and Harry placed a third kiss lower near his shoulder blade. He squeezed Draco’s waist and continued to presses kisses across as much of his back and shoulders as he could reach.

He heard a groan above him, and Draco shifted his legs.

“Potter?”

“Morning.” Kiss. “Did you sleep well?” He moved up and kissed Draco’s neck again.

“Mmm, I did.” Draco brought his hand up to cover Harry’s. “And I could get used to waking up like this.” With a wriggle of his hips, Draco tucked himself into the curve of Harry’s body, and they were soon flush against one another. Draco’s erection started to poke up, the thin cotton pajamas doing nothing to cover it.

Spurred by the reaction he was getting, and his own erection rapidly growing, Harry flicked his tongue against Draco’s ear. It was maddening the way Draco moaned at that. So Harry did it again, lightly running the tip of his tongue over the shell of Draco’s ear and kissing the lobe. Draco’s bum slammed back into him.

It took only a second before Harry’s hips followed suit, and he rubbed himself into the soft but firm cheeks of Draco’s arse. Draco rutted back, breathing hard and occasionally moaning aloud. Harry continued to press kisses close to his ear and the sensitive skin around it, wanting to see Draco come undone by it. He reached over his hips, grabbing Draco’s hot cock through his pajamas.

The fabric got wet with precome, and Harry rubbed over it, making Draco hiss. He then reached into the pajamas and grabbed it in his fist. Draco seemed unable to decide between rutting back into Harry’s groin or forward into his hand.

“Fuck me, Potter.”

Harry groaned and let go of Draco’s cock. Oh god, hearing him say that aloud out of pure desperation was almost too much. Harry loved hearing that, and the roughness in Draco’s voice, hearing Draco want it that bad. He couldn’t resist flipping Draco onto his stomach, placing both hands on either side of him and just rutting into his arse.

“Like that?”

“Yes. Oh, fuck, yes.”

Harry pulled Draco’s pajamas down and let the waistband rest under his arse cheeks, nudging his t-shirt up his lower back, and just looked at his framed arse.

“Fuck, Draco.” Jaw slack, slightly lightheaded with lust, Harry pulled his cock out. He stroked it twice, for good measure.

Draco lifted his hips. “You want that?”

The bloody tease. He even smirked back at Harry, half his face in a pillow. He had no idea how obliterated he was going to be. Harry was going to make him drool into that pillow.

“I’m gonna tear you apart.”

Draco’s smirk fell as his eyes darkened and fluttered shut.

Harry crawled over on his knees to the side of the bed where he reached into his nightstand and pulled out a jar of lube. Repositioning himself, he unscrewed the lid and dipped his fingers in.

Resting his dry palms on Draco’s arse, he pulled apart his cheeks to reveal his hole. Another groan escaped Harry’s throat. This was probably the hottest view he’d ever seen in his life. Draco on his stomach, his knees lifting up his arse, his tight hole on display. Harry bit his lip and prayed he’d last longer than two minutes.

He started by slowly rubbing his lubed fingers over Draco’s arsehole just to revel in getting to touch him. Draco’s skin was so hot and velvety. And the noises he made were music to Harry’s ears.

He slowly pushed one finger tip in. Draco put his face into the pillow, his shoulders clenched up as he braced for it. It was somehow so endearing, Harry got the most tender feeling in his chest, but again, he pushed it away and focused on the way his fingers was slowly slipping into Draco’s arse.

He pushed it in, hissing at the tightness. He wanted to stick his dick in that so badly, and suddenly that was his first priority yet again. He started on the second finger, squeezing Draco’s cheek as he pushed that one in as well. Then he began to slide them in and out, back and forth.

“Want more?”

“Yes,” Draco’s muffled voice said, as his face was apparently still hidden in Harry’s pillow.

Harry pulled his fingers all the way out before trying out three at once, and he pressed until Draco’s arse gave way and let them all in.

“You’re taking it.” It wasn’t a command, more like a reverent observation, one that Harry breathed as he fucked Draco with three fingers. “You want it, don’t you?” he asked, this time more firmly.

“Yes.” And as if to prove it, Draco lifted his hips a bit more. He turned his head, and his face was all flushed and his lips wet. He shut his eyes tight as he breathed. “Want it…” Harry slapped his arse cheek, and Draco grunted and opened his eyes.

“What do you want?” Harry asked, his voice scratchy.

Draco held his gaze for a second. And then he said, “Fuck me, Potter.” Harry sucked in air through his teeth. When Draco realized this turned Harry on, he said it again. “Please fuck me. I want it. Please fuck me hard.”

“God damn it.” Harry pulled his fingers out of Draco and gripped the base of his own cock, lining it up with his now reddened entrance.

It was surprisingly easy to push the thick head of his cock into Draco’s hole, which seemed eager to swallow him up. Harry sucked in a breath at the same time that Draco moaned. Slowly but steadily, he pushed the rest of the way in.

“You like that?”

Draco nodded.

Harry slapped his arse, eliciting a yelp. “Tell me.”

“I love it.”

“Yeah.” Harry pulled out halfway and then eased back in. Draco felt so tight and silky, he could hardly think straight. He began to fuck him in earnest.

The room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin and heavy, panting breaths as Harry slammed into Draco again and again. With one hand on each of Draco’s hips, he pulled Draco against him every time he fucked into him, completely lost in the rhythm. For his part, Draco took it with as much wantonness as Harry could have ever fantasized. And he would definitely fantasize about this for many wank sessions to come; Draco was the hottest thing he had ever seen. Like the way he lifted his hips and arse so eagerly-- so slutty-- like he was desperate for Harry’s cock. The way his lips parted upon needy moans were such a stark contrast to the biting sneers and taunting smirks Harry remembered him by.

“You really like this, don’t you?” Harry prompted, his voice gravelly and strained.

“Oh fuck yes,” Draco breathed. “Harder.”

Shit that was hot, Draco asking for more. Asking for it _harder_. Harry pushed his hips flat onto the mattress and sank on top of him, his chest and stomach flush against Draco’s back, the white t-shirt Draco wore damp down Draco’s spine. Draco spread his legs wide as Harry knelt between them and fucked him at a punishing pace, sharp juts of the hip going deeper into Draco’s arse.

“Oh, there! Right there, Potter. Please-- Yes.” Draco kept up a litany of encouragement and praise, and the occasional _please_ that drove Harry mad.

It wasn’t much longer before Harry’s balls clenched in that tell-tale way. He pressed a kiss between Draco’s shoulder blades as he gripped onto his hips bruisingly, thrust in two more times nice and deep, and came into his arse. The answering shudders of Draco’s muscles as his own orgasm overcame him were almost too much, massaging Harry’s over-sensitized cock as it began to soften.

As gently as he could, he pulled himself out with a sticky-sounding pop, and collapsed bonelessly on top of Draco again.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, squishing the life out of Draco in the most reverent way. He just knew he didn’t want to get off. He couldn’t bear to break this contact. Every beat of his heart seemed to radiate some sort of unnerving emotion Harry didn’t want to place.

Draco shuffled underneath him. “Potter…”

“No.”

“You’re heavy as fuck, get off me.” He thrashed his hips.

Harry sighed and rolled to the side.

“When did you get so fat?” Draco asked, a whisper of a smirk on his lips. His cheeks were still pink in a most endearing way.

“I’m not fat, you wanker.” Harry nudged his arm. “It’s the training. I’ve gained weight.”

Draco’s gaze slid lower, and Harry’s cheeks burned under his scrutiny. Draco reached out and slid his fingers over Harry’s chest and then down over his taut stomach, rubbing his thumb over the firm muscle . Harry had never been so thankful for all the gruelling hours they were forced to spend out on the field.

“I can see that,” Draco said, referring to his gaining weight. “Actually, I’ve noticed for a while.” His grin was lecherous, all teeth.

“But you…” Harry was in too good a mood to muddy it up with his previous worries. What did it matter if Draco used to pay more attention to everyone but him? Surely he was paying attention to Harry now. He was in _Harry’s_ bed. A surge of possessiveness clenched at his chest, and his hand shot out to grip Draco’s arse.

“Handsy,” Draco tisked, though that didn’t stop him from arching back into Harry’s grip. “I what, Potter?”

Harry bit his lip. “I just didn’t expect us to be friends, is all.”

Something unhappy flashed in Draco’s eyes, but he recovered quickly and flashed that same flirty smile. “Are we friends?”

“I suppose so. I mean we’re not… enemies.”

“No.” Draco swallowed, his gaze hard and steady like he was trying to look right through him. “We’re definitely not enemies.”

“I’m glad.”

“Are you?”

“You’re not particularly fun to be enemies with.”

Draco sniggered. “It’s all for the best,” he faux-sighed, “since enemies don’t fuck each other. Or do they?”

A fissure of warmth ran through Harry. “So does that make us… friends who fuck?” He squeezed Draco’s arse and ran his thumb in circles over his skin.

“Sounds about right.”

Harry chuckled.

“This was your aim all along, wasn’t it, Potter?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “How did you ever find me out?”

“Well, desperately calling out my name in your sleep was one clue. Your huge boner was another.”

“What?” Harry pulled his hand back and shifted away an inch, making Draco’s smile fall from his face. “I… called your name?” Pieces of his dream flashed in front of his eyes. Yes, he had dreamed of Draco, but Draco had been dead.

“Potter, are you alright?” Draco grabbed Harry’s arm in a tight grip that somehow grounded him.

“Yeah, sorry.” He shook his head, and Draco’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck. Harry looked up at him to see a deep crease between sharp grey eyes. “I’m fine, I just remembered… It must have been a nightmare. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“What was it about?”

Harry frowned. “I’m not going to talk about it.”

Draco opened his mouth, but then closed it on a sigh. “Fine.”

“Sorry.” He suddenly felt a pang of guilt. But why should he talk about it if he didn’t want to? They were his nightmares, his constant ghosts ever since the end of the war. Only Hermione and Ron knew about them, and he had even told Hermione they’d stopped. What could Draco possibly do to help? “I don’t want to upset you.”

Draco scoffed. “Please, Potter, I’m not that precious. Besides, you don’t think I have my own demons?”

He let go of Harry’s neck-- a touch Harry didn’t realize he needed until that firm warmth was gone-- and showed him his forearm. The Dark Mark, a dull charcoal grey, floated in Harry’s vision.

Harry clenched his jaw. “I know it won’t come off. Other Death Eaters have reported that same problem.”

“Yes well, what do you think it feels like to have to look at it every day?”

“I wouldn’t know because I was never a Death Eater.”

Draco sighed hard through his nose. “I’m not trying to ask for sympathy. I’m not trying to make you feel bad for me and say, ‘Oh poor Draco, his Dark Mark won’t even go away.’ I know I made this decision. I made this mistake. I’m living with it.” His lip curled up, and he resembled his school-aged self so much, it made Harry’s heart hurt. “I’m saying, it’s okay to talk about it. We all have shit in our past we need to talk about. Lovegood was right, you can’t keep trauma bottled up.”

Harry set his hand right next to Draco’s on the mattress. Their fingers were nearly touching. Harry stared at them as he said, his voice gentle, “So you’re all grown up and smart now, huh?”

“I was always smart,” Draco said with a huff. His fingers closed the gap and wrapped around Harry’s. It was like their magic sent sparks up Harry’s arm and through his entire body, but somewhere deep down he knew it wasn’t magic; it was something else. “I only know because Lovegood told me the same thing,” he admitted. “She forced me to come to her stupid music lessons.”

Harry snorted. He tried to imagine Draco at Luna’s lessons--haughty, snarky Draco in his shiny brogues and his tailored jacket stepping foot in that dilapidated shelter. “You must have been terrified.”

“Believe me, I was,” Draco drawled.

“Did she make you bang the tambourine? Sing? Which was it?”

“I will never tell you and give you that mental image. All I will say is, I went one time and then she nearly cried when I told her it wasn’t for me. So I agreed to go to the Saturday performance just to shut her up.”

“Awww.” Harry mocked in the gooiest voice he could. “Big, tough Draco Malfoy got all soft around weepy Luna?”

Draco jumped him, something Harry had absolutely not been expecting, and settled on Harry’s stomach, straddling his torso.

“Oomph!” All the air left Harry’s lungs. He held onto Draco’s thighs.

Draco leaned down and placed a hand around Harry’s throat. “I won’t be mocked like this, Potter,” he spat, and there was a playful lift to his sneer.

“What are you going to do to me, _Malfoy?_ Call your daddy?”

“Shut up!” Draco slapped him, albeit lightly, across the face.

But it was still not on.

It was surprisingly easy--and again, Harry profusely thanked his training-- to flip Draco around and slam him onto the mattress. Harry had the upper hand then, pinning Draco’s arms down over his head and using his thighs to keep his legs down.

Draco’s eyes were wide and his cheeks grew pink. And his cock poked Harry’s inner thigh.

Harry glanced at it, then look at Draco and grinned.

“You’ve caught me… _Auror Potter_.”

“Oh is that how it is?”

“Isn’t it?” Draco squirmed, but Harry tightened his grip and held him fast.

“Why is it whenever something goes wrong, it’s always you?”

Draco was about to reply when a buzzing sound snapped his attention to the night stand.

“Shit.” It was his fucking phone. The last thing Harry wanted was to get off Draco right about now, when his cock was half hard and Draco was so goddamn _tempting_ , but the buzzing continued. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

He realized he had no idea what time it was. With a frustrated groan, Harry let go of Draco’s wrists and rolled off of his body, making his way over the bed to the nightstand. He grabbed his phone.

Hermione was calling. Her smiling face glowed from the screen as the sliding button flashed and the phone buzzed incessantly.

He looked back at Draco, who had not even moved his arms and was staring at the ceiling.

“I have to get this…” Harry offered by way of apology, and he slid the answer button.  
“Hi, it’s not a good time.”

“Why? Are you okay?”

“Why do you always jump to the idea that I’m somehow not okay?”

“Because it’s Sunday.”

Harry shut his eyes. “What time?”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione’s sigh was breathy through the receiver. “Should I tell Molly you’re not coming?”

There was rustling movement from the bed, and Harry didn’t want to look behind him to see Draco getting up. He didn’t want him to start putting his clothes on. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he checked out the time. Oh fuck, he was late. How was it already two in the afternoon? He had missed the fresh pot of coffee and Ron had probably finished off all the scones by now.

Maybe it was too late to go anyways. Molly would understand. She wouldn’t think Harry had blown her off, she’d just realize that… that…

“I’m coming now.” He hung up, listening to Draco padding around the room. When he finally looked up, Draco was pulling on his trousers. Harry let himself drink in the lines of his bare back for a silent moment. “I have to go.”

Draco turned around with a confident smile. “Don’t worry about it, Potter. We’re just friends, remember?”

“Friends who fuck.”

Draco snorted. “Right.”

Harry worried his bottom lip, trying to pretend he was just imagining how Draco suddenly did not seem so happy about that.

 

 

\\\//

 

That Friday they had chosen a new pub. This one was louder than usual, playing some bangy techno music that made it nearly impossible to have a conversation. If Ginny hadn’t been dating Blaise, they wouldn’t have had to listen to Parkinson whine about going there, and they would certainly not have had to go with her.

“There are loads of fit girls here,” Seamus hollered at him, because one had to holler to be heard.

Apparently not everyone hated it as much as Harry did.

“Stop being such a curmudgeon,” Ginny said. “I can see it on your face.”

“Can you see this?” Harry said, flashing her two fingers.

“Ha ha, that is sooo funny!”

“Why are there so many fit girls here?” Seamus echoed himself. He was looking around with a big grin, like a kid in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“Girls like this music.” Ginny smiled and bopped from side to side in a little bouncy dance.

“We are listening to Parkinson more often,” Seamus added.

“You like this?” Harry asked her, pointing up like the music was located directly above him in the ceiling.

“Not bad. It’s fun!”

Harry shook his head and decided it was a lost cause. He scanned the room instead, looking over heads.

“Who are you looking for?” Ginny nudged his shoulder and wiggled her eyebrows.

Harry’s pulse spend up. He couldn’t say Ron because Ron and Hermione were already there and had gone to get drinks.

“Riiight. What what I want to know is where Blaise ran off to. He was supposed to be back with my refill twenty minutes ago.”

As if on cue, Blaise appeared walking toward them from the left side of the bar, where the DJ was playing on a brightly lit platform. Harry’s heart skipped when Draco emerged from the crowd right behind him.

“Where’d you go!” Ginny wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Missed me?” He raised an eyebrow cheekily at her.

“No. I want my drink.” She grinned.

“That won’t be a problem now since I’ve got you bottle service.” Blaise looked mighty pleased with himself, but he added with a lazy hand wave, “Well, Malfoy got it, actually. He got us a private table in the back room.”

“VIP only for you, Weasley.” Draco smirked and stood with his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

Ginny raised her chin and teased him right back. “Harry could have gotten VIP, too.”

That was the first time Draco’s eyes flitted to Harry, but he looked away automatically. “No doubt.”

“This isn’t going to turn into a, ‘Who’s more rich and powerful?’ game, is it?” Blaise asked, sounding bored and unimpressed. “Or can we just start drinking already?”

“Drinking.” Ginny nodded, and they turned toward the VIP section where their table lay in wait.

Seamus seemed to have run off somewhere, distracted by some girl most likely, and Harry found himself alone with Draco, who was not looking at him but standing there anyways. Like he was waiting for Harry to say something.

Harry stepped closer to him so that he could speak over the loud music. The familiar rush of Draco’s cologne came over him. “Don’t tell me you like this place, too?” Harry tried for a smile.

Draco returned a tight one. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay.”

That was it. Harry grabbed his elbow and came so close, their chests brushed momentarily. “What’s the problem now?”

“No problem at all.” Draco tried to break his elbow free, but Harry redoubled his grip and kept him close.

“I don’t have the patience for this. What happened since Sunday?”

“I just don’t think we want the same things. _Friend_.” His eyes went directly to the sneer on Draco’s beautiful lips.

“I want you.”

Draco seemed frozen, his hardness slowly cracking.

“Just to be clear.”

“Come outside for a smoke with me.”

Draco led the way, weaving in and out of people with Harry following close behind, unwilling to lose sight of him like if he did he would never find his own way out. He reached out and touched the small of Draco’s back, and Draco reached back to take his hand. They held hands until they reached the exit.

Harry didn’t realize how stuffy it had been in there until he breathed in the crisp air outside. It felt like he could think properly again. He leaned against the brick wall, hands tucked into his jeans’ pockets, as Draco lit his cigarette.

“You’re crazy,” he said, watching Draco inhale. Even then, even though they were on the edge of an argument, all he wanted was to bury his face in Draco’s neck.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Why?” He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the pavement.

Harry couldn’t explain how he felt about this whole thing, he knew he would just fuck it up somehow if he tried. The words got stuck in his throat anyway, refusing to come out. It made want to laugh. Even his body knew he would fuck shit up if he spoke.”

“Have you ever listened to the Foo Fighters?” When Draco gave him a blank look, Harry chuckled. “No, of course you haven’t, what am I thinking? They’re this Muggle band I like a lot.”

“Oh? And why do you like them so much?”

“They’re music is just….” He sighed as a hard percussion beat drummed through his mind like the beat in his chest looking at Draco. “I want to show you.”

“What, now?”

“Yes.” Harry held his hand out. “You know this place sucks,” he added, nodding toward the bar. He tilted his head down and smiled. “Come to my place.”

Draco shook his head as he dropped his cigarette to the ground. He reached out and they threaded their fingers together for the second time that night. Harry immediately Disapparated.

When they got to his flat, he put his tv on and searched Youtube.

“Should I even ask what this is?” Draco plopped down next to him on the sofa. Their usual seats.

“Nah, just shut up and listen.” Harry found the song he wanted. “This song is called _Everlong_. It’s sort of like...” He looked at Draco’s face. “...everything.”

He smiled at the unimpressed look Draco was giving the telly. Once the music started, his face started to slowly change. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him.

The drums kept beating.

Draco turned to catch Harry’s eye, and Harry’s breath came so tight. He shifted closer.

“Potter…”

“What do you think?”

Draco’s voice was low. “It’s you.”

“No.” Harry shook his head. The drums intensified all around them, filling the room. “It’s _you_.” He couldn’t help himself, he had to touch him. He dragged his thumb along Draco’s sharp jaw, pulling him in.

Draco was ready for the kiss, closing his eyes and opening his mouth to let Harry’s tongue in. No resistance, just melting into each other as the guitar raged.

 

 

\\\//

 

Harry slammed onto the round barrel of the drum. Over and over again, one angry but thrilling beat after the next. He closed his eyes and let the urge overtake him. The cymbal, a raucous and glorious clang that reverberated right through his soul.

Luna had been right.

Draco had been right.

He kept playing the drums until the thrumming energy rose up through his chest and he just hollered, slamming the cymbal one last time.

That was one way to lose his breath.

He looked up. Luna was clapping and jumping up and down.

“That was brilliant, Harry! Way to let it out!”

Draco had convinced him to play _Everlong_ for the next performance. _“You don’t have to sing, idiot.”_ And Harry did like the idea of playing the drums.

It helped with his nightmares.

As did falling asleep spooning the shit out of Draco.

 

 

\\\ END //

 

 

 

Hello

I've waited here for you

Everlong


End file.
